Noise
by natcat5
Summary: A murderous war spanning decades is about to come to a head. Yao doesn't forgive. Arthur doesn't forget. Ivan won't back down. Immortality and crime shouldn't mix, and the results will be explosive. AU Brotherly USUK, NiChu, KoChu (please go straight to last chapter for important information! Even if you are a new reader!)
1. Is it Getting Better?

**Summary: _Some stories can get quite complicated. Especially when they involve crime families, plots to take over the world, and immortality. Time can't erase hate, nor can it erase love, and a life of crime can last forever. AU_**

**Main Characters: England, China, Japan, Canada, Korea, America, Russia (a lot of other characters are in the story and I refuse to list them all. These are the 'main' characters )**

**Pairings: This story is not a romance story. England and China are the main characters but they are definitely not a pairing in this. The 'love' in it is mostly family bonds and brotherhood and stuff like that. A few pairings may pop up or be hinted at, but there are very few legit pairings. And I'm not going to reveal what those are. :3**

**I will say that there will be a lot of brotherly USUK and brotherly NiChu.**

**Warnings: For this chapter? Nothing really. Mentions of drugs and violence. For the entire fic? ...Severe mindf*ckery and trolling. And cliffhangers. Lots of cliffhangers. And if you don't pay attention to dates and locations you will get very confused very fast.**

_Xiang-Hong Kong; Angelique-Seychelles; Joey-Australia; Linh-Vietnam; Tai-Thailand; Mei-Taiwan (+ cameos by Cameroon and Macau, who are both canon characters)_

_Chapter 1 _

**"**_Is it getting better?** Or do you feel the same?"**_

_** -**_One, **U2 (and Mary J. Blige)**

_**/**_

**Toronto- Ontario, Canada – March, 2010**

It was cold.

The young man exhaled, watching his breath ghost and mist in the air. He smiled to himself at the sunny day, grinning upwards at the cloudless sky and relishing the surreal calmness that wasn't usually associated with the harsh Canadian winter. The youth rubbed his mittened hands together, his smile widening as he saw the white Olympic symbol on the red fabric.

It was days like these, with the sky bright and beautiful, a perpetual tranquility in the air, and a reminder of his nation's triumphs directly on his fingertips, that Matthew Williams really loved being Canadian.

"Coach Matthew!"

The young man turned, pushing his glasses farther up his nose and lessening his wide grin to a gentler smile. "Hello there, Timothy," he said, waving cheerfully. "You're here early."

A young boy of about 10 or so beamed at Matthew, a gap-toothed grin faltering as he almost fell over under the weight of the hockey equipment he was carrying.

"I wanted to get extra practice in!" he explained breathlessly, "So I asked Bella to drop me off early!"

Matthew peered over the boy's shoulder, down the path that led from the street to the small frozen pond, and at the car currently parked there, where a woman was waving enthusiastically from the driver's seat. Matthew smiled. It was sweet that Bella took time out of her day to drive the boy to practice when his parents were at work, even if he never could get the Belgian woman to realize that he was _twenty-one _and _not _available for dating a woman in her mid-thirties, even if he was good friends with her younger brother.

Though he had to wonder, did his age really count considering how long he had been twenty-one?

"Well it's a good thing I always come early, eh?" chuckled Matthew as he rose from the bench and stretched, shivering slightly as his sweater lifted up and a cool breeze managed to blow up it. He really should have invested in a jacket, though he supposed a part of him was just curious as to whether or not he could actually freeze to death.

He definitely couldn't burn to death, but maybe freezing...?

"I wanted to work on my slapshot," said Timothy, staggering over to the bench and putting down his equipment before sitting down and unzipping the large hockey bag. "I want to surprise the others when they come! I want to be super awesome! So awesome that even Freddie can't stop my shot!"

Matthew's smile wavered, a slight twinge panging in his chest as Timothy was replaced with a vision of a young, blue-eyed boy with a cowlick and a determined, energetic expression on his face.

"_I'll be your hero, Mattie! So don't worry, we'll stick t'gether!"_

"_Don't cry! Even if we're getting a new brother, you'll still be my awesome twin!" _

"_Arthur's so mean to us! It's 'cause we're younger isn't it! We're not _that _much younger...Hmph. Well, who cares about smelly old Arthur." _

"_Y'know Mattie…Arthur ain't so bad! He's actually really nice, an' lookit the toy soldier he gave me!"_

"_Wha-Matt? Didn't see you there! Hey, I gotta go. Arthur and I are going out for awhile. Just…y'know. Have fun here, alright?" _

"_I can't talk right now. Something's up with Arthur…I need to figure out…" _

"_Don't you understand, Matt? We need to do this for Arthur…he's our brother! You want to just leave him by himself?" _

"_You have to get stronger, Matt! How are you supposed to help Arthur if you can't even shoot someone?" _

"_Arthur's the most important person to me…the most important…" _

"_I have to leave…Mattie…I'm leaving…I just…I hate him…I _hate_ him…" _

"_Goodbye...I'm sorry…I wasn't a good hero in the end, was I?" _

"Coach Matthew?"

Matthew blinked rapidly, glancing down at Timothy, who was looking at him with a confused and worried expression. The blonde took off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes and cleaning the lenses with the inside of his collar.

"Sorry Timothy, I guess I'm a bit tired," laughed the young coach, smiling widely at his student, who beamed back. "Get your gear on and we'll start alright?" Timothy nodded excitedly and kicked off his boots, causing them to thud into the snow. He pulled his skates out of his bag and began tugging them on, a slight frown on his face as he tried to untangle the laces.

Matthew smiled fondly but was unable to truly enjoy the scene. He sighed, once again watching his breath ghost in the cold March air.

_What a stupid time to be thinking of that idiot_, thought the blonde somewhat bitterly, shivering and tucking his hands into his pockets.

_He's dead anyways. What do I care? _

**Sherlock, England – January 2010**

"Well, here we are. It's not much, but it's home."

Xiang's eyes flickered around the room, taking in everything from the décor and wallpaper to possible escape routes, all while still keeping his outwards appearance of complete apathy.

"It's nice," affirmed the Chinese teenager in his standard monotone. Gaze flicking upwards, he noticed the man's somewhat irritated expression at his lack of excitement and added: "And warm. It seems very homey."

The man's mouth quirked upwards and he sighed. "Enjoy that stoic act while you can, Xiang," he warned, glaring at him, "You'll find it impossible to maintain that façade around Heidi."

Xiang merely blinked in response, tilting his head in a confused manner. The entire situation honestly did confuse him. Vash was the man's name, and he lived with his younger sister in a small town in England. It was a very secluded place, surrounded by forests and the like, and the people seemed very…different than what he was used to.

Liars. Backstabbers. Murderers. Even in recent years, when he had no longer been working for England, his life had been filled with these. London wasn't a nice place, especially if you were a petite Asian boy who could pass for twelve on a bad day, and barely looked sixteen on a good day. Considering he had almost been seventeen when he had…stopped. It was a rather infuriating situation to be in. Especially when people constantly undermined him or treated him like he was as delicate as a flower because he was slim and young-looking.

If they knew he had lived for decades and had grown up as a master saboteur, would they still treat him as vulnerable jailbait?

"Heidi's at school right now," continued Vash, walking into the house and putting his coat on a stand near the door. "She's quite excited to meet you. It seems that she has always wanted a brother closer to her own age..."

_What's so great about brothers? _Thought Xiang as he slowly followed the man into the house, carrying his light suitcase easily. _Mine never did me any good. _

"I'll show you to your room. You can put your bag down and…rest…if you're tired…I could show you around the house if you really wanted me to..." mumbled Vash, averting his gaze and cheeks reddening, as if being charitable embarrassed him. The teenager maintained his bored expression, walking past the man towards the corridor he assumed led to his temporary living arrangements.

Xiang felt the slightest twinge of guilt as he heard Vash grumble behind him, but really, what was there to be guilty for? No use pretending with the man. All his generosity and supposed kindness -because he wasn't, and never would be, convinced that it was genuine-wouldn't be able to make him normal.

He wasn't fourteen like they had told him at the orphanage. He hadn't been fourteen for over seventy years. He would never look older than sixteen, never would _be _older than sixteen, and would never stay in one place for longer than two years.

_What a curse…_

Xiang closed his eyes, ignoring Vash's mumbling attempts to ask him if he needed anything.

_China was wrong…there is a punishment for our sins…_

**Australian Outback- April 2010 **

It was hot.

The sun was blistering, causing the dry, flat landscape to waver and shift in the image of a mirage, waves of heat seeming to cause the very air to bend. The sky was unhelpful, not a single cloud covering the hateful star and leaving anything on the earth below completely helpless to its merciless rays.

The man rubbed at the bridge of his nose, wincing as he aggravated the sunburn under the bandage. Adjusting the sunhat so carefully positioned on his head, he wiped a bead of sweat from his brown and raised his rifle, peering into the scope with one eye shut and tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.

The Outback. A hotbed for death in the most excruciating ways possible. It was kind of hilarious, the vast amount of ways you could meet your end out here. Poisonous snakes, scorpions, spiders, dangerous beasts, wolverines, and dingoes. The stretches of land that went for miles and miles without any water in sight. No edible trees, grass, or anything that could sustain life. It was a wonder that Australian settlers had been able to survive a month out here, let along long enough to set up an entire country.

_But that's the beauty of us, ain't it? _Thought the Australian with a grin. _Aussies can't be beat. Not a single bloke on this earth that can stand up to us! _

He loved it. He loved the thrill of it. The thrill of being close to death with every move he made. Challenging death, challenging nature, challenging everything that had daunted humanity since the beginning of time; that was Joey Sanders's purpose in life. Named after a baby kangaroo, his Mum used to say that he must have been born one and been switched at birth. Joey had always considered it a compliment. He was an animal of the Outback and damned proud of it. Spitting in the face of danger was his life's calling, and hell if he gave a damn about the million ways you could die out here.

_Of course, _thought Joey with a small frown, _the fun gets taken out of it a bit when you really _can't _die…_

The man's thoughts were interrupted as he spotted something in the scope, and he automatically stiffened, tightening his hold on the gun and leaning in slightly. A grin spread across his face as he both saw and heard his quarry.

The distinctive hum of a jeep, of something that didn't belong, of an unwanted factor in Joey Sanders's Outback. A blemish, a scar, a completely unwanted entity in _his _wilderness.

It was just a stroke of luck that killing the _Lair_ was his actual job. Bonus was that he'd enjoy it.

Joey watched the jeep come closer in his sights, narrowing his eyes in disgust at the three well-dressed men sitting it.

Who the hell wears a golf shirt in the fucking Outback?

_Honestly. _

Luck was on the Aussie's side. The men were driving in a line that wasn't far from the rock he was crouching behind. That way, he wouldn't have to run very far. He wasn't a fan of running. You missed too much if you went rushing about everywhere. And he wished that he didn't have to always attack from so bloody far away; he much preferred hand-to-hand combat. That way, it was more personal, and you could _see _the person you were beating the shit out of.

It let both of you know that you were still human.

Even if you were a creature of the outback at heart.

_Closer…closer…._

Damn that was disgusting. He could smell the fumes, clogging up the beautiful, dry air of _his _outback. Those dirty wheels digging tracks through _his _land.

Closer…..

There!

Two shots rang out, the noise echoing around the plains, and almost instantaneously, the jeep collapsed on the right side and began spinning out of control.

Joey grinned, putting down the rifle and leaping up, picking up two metal gauntlets from the ground and leaping over the rock, sliding down the hillside to where the jeep collapsed onto its side.

He hated fighting from far away, so he did the only conceivable thing. Shot out their tires so he could take the fight to them.

Joey grinned, pulling on the gauntlets and stalking across the plains, taking his time and breathing in the dusty Australian air. The targets were having trouble freeing themselves from the wreckage, and one was fumbling with a gun at his hip.

_That could be problematic…_thought Joey, _If they shoot me, that might give them a bit of time to run away…ah, well. Running sucks, but hunts are always exciting. _

Joey Sanders was an animal of the outback, a man who laughed in the face of death.

_The principle is good, _he thought to himself, smiling down the barrel of the gun with a distinctly demonic look.

_Even if death isn't necessarily an option. _

**Dublin, Ireland – March 2010 **

"So tell me, are you lads in town for St. Pattie's day?"

The men sitting around the table looked up, casting glances at each other, before grinning up at the pretty waitress.

"Nah, bird," said a particularly roguish looking one, winking broadly. "We came in town simply ta see such a sweet lass as yourself."

There were hoots from the other men at his casual use of the less-then-respectful term, but the girl just giggled coyly, as if not understanding. The waitress took their drinks off of the serving tray and placed it before each of the men, smiling in the face of their lusty, mocking stares. Her long, dark brown pigtails drooped over her overly exposed chest, while her skirt rode up considerably as she bent over. There were several appreciative whistles, and the girl had to fight to keep the oblivious, ditsy look on her face.

_Idiots…such idiots…_

"So, do you know what you gentlemen would like to order yet?" she asked cheerfully, pulling out a notebook that had been conveniently situated between her breasts, and taking a pencil out of the waistband of her skirt, pulling up her shirt far more than necessary to reach it. Aware of their lusty stares, the girl had to fight to stop from rolling her eyes or sighing.

_Gentlemen…_puh-_lease. This is insulting. Why do I do this again? _

"Tell me, birdie," said the roguish one, leaning in close and beckoning her closer with his finger. She complied, keeping her eyes as wide and as empty as possible. "What say you and me go find a room somewhere, just the two of us?" he asked, grinning.

_Oh yeah. _

The young woman straightened up, blinking, as if confused, before smiling widely. "Sure! That sounds great! Let me just tell my boss!"

There were catcalls and jostling from the other men at the table, as well as jealous stares. The man who had 'scored' looked smug, leaning back in his chair and openly staring at the waitress's ass.

"Leaving again, Angelique?" asked the large African man sitting in a chair in the employee's room, watching the young woman who had just entered untie her apron and place down her serving tray. "I don't understand why you do this. It's not like you don't make enough money here."

Angelique hummed to herself, digging into a small knapsack on the floor and pulling out several long daggers.

_Because…_

"It's fun!" she said cheerfully, tucking the knives into various hidden crevices on her body, and ending with placing two red bowties on each of her ponytails, both with a vial of liquid attached to back of them. "And I hate men."

"You don't hate me," grumbled the man, flipping a page in the newspaper.

"I hate _dirty _men," corrected the tanned girl, adjusting her skirt. "And they're just.. ._so easy…_y'know? It's like a power trip. They're so easy to get rid of…and…and I'm keeping the streets safe. Keeping other girls safe," she said firmly, pausing with her hand on the doorknob.

"If you say so, Angel," mumbled the large black man, adjusting his glasses and turning the page again.

Angelique nodded, and then pushed the door open, ditsy smile back in place as she met the gaze of her quarry.

_It's so easy…they never suspect a thing…and it's so easy…it's _fun.

**Seoul, South Korea, February 2010 **

The young man leaned against the wall, sitting with his knees up and his fingers drumming a rhythm on his thighs. His head swayed from side to side as he sang along to the song blasting from his headphones, a grin on his lips as he tapped his feet along to the catchy beat.

"Shawty, shawty shawty, _Nuni busyeo busyeo busyeo. Sumi makhyeo makhyeo makhyeo, naega michyeo michyeo _baby_ …" _

He broke off into humming as the lyrics of the next verse escaped his memory, still swaying and tapping happily. Beyond the music from his iPod, he could hear the distinct sounds of the busy city. The cars rushing to and fro, horns honking. The constant hum of talking as people walked by on the crowded sidewalks, cell phones held to their ears and blackberries in hand. The distinctive titter of schoolgirls who had found the time to go shopping in the country's capital, cooing over some actor or some American singer. They walked like they were skipping, bouncing off the ground. The businessmen walking by with cumbersome briefcases had heavier, more hurried steps. Then the elderly, who walked at a slow, lolling pace. They were probably shaking their heads as they walked, exasperated by the carefree nature of the younger generation and wondering where the respect had gone.

The sounds of the city fit, and yet didn't fit, into the song that was still blasting in his ears, the electronic beat matching the mechanic honking of cars and the crash of machinery at nearby construction. However, the sounds that the city made were so distinct, so alive and vibrant with such a personal connection, that it was hard to find any type of track that would fit it.

Despite this, he smiled and continued to sway back and forth, tapping his feet and humming along to the song, fingers drumming faster and faster, no longer following the beat of the song, but the beat of the city he loved.

"Alright man, break time's over. Time to get up and get working!"

The youth's eyes snapped open, the connection interrupted by the demanding voice of a teenage boy. The youth pulled one headphone away from his ear and looked up with a pout, making wide eyes at the teenager standing over him.

"But _Hyung…_" he whined, "I've been working all day! I'm tired!"

"Get up, lazy," commanded the other teen with a stern look, pushing his glasses further up on his nose. "You agreed to help, so help! You've been on break for forever!" The other youth made a noise of protest as his friend pulled him to his feet, causing the headphones to slide off his head and around his neck and cutting his connection with the music all together. The sounds of the city reverberated in his ears, and he stood completely still for a moment, surrounded by the blanket of familiar noise and movement.

"Come on, Yong Soo," said the brunette, turning and beginning to walk towards the truck parked by the sidewalk, "We've got a lot of stuff to move in!"

Yong Soo blinked, gave his head a quick shake, and then grinned, adjusting the headphones around his neck.

"You got it, da ze~!" he exclaimed, pumping a fist into the air. "Helping friends move into new apartments totally originated from me!"

**Yanaka-Tokyo, Japan, April 2010 **

The Cherry Blossoms were in bloom.

The young man looked up at them, blinking his large, dark brown eyes against the sunlight that was trickling from between the branches and the blossoms. The _sakura _were enchanting in the dying light, the hues of pink shifting to darker shades, to lighter shades, to shades with a tinge of red or orange to reflect the colours of the setting sun. Even the way the blossoms moved in the cool evening breeze was captivating. The way they swayed in the light draft was like dancing. The entire branch moving as one, but the blossoms moving as a thousand separate entities, each with their own separate motion, but all coming together to give a beautiful performance. A beautiful shifting of colours and dappling beauty.

He had missed the _sakura. _Though they grew in China, they never grew with quite the…_magic _that they did in his native land.

Sighing, the young man dropped his gaze. He was not here to idle his time away watching cherry blossoms, as much as he would like to. As he turned away from the tree, he had a strong urge to turn back and bow to it, feeling like it had performed an act of great charity by dancing so freely in front of him, and that it deserved the proper respect and appreciation in response. Shivers ran up his spine as a cool breeze blew down his collar, and he walked forward, not turning back towards the tree. Because while he loved the _sakura _and thought that giving respect when it was due was very important, Kiku Honda valued diligence above all else.

And right now, he had a job to do.

The young Japanese man continued walking down the empty street, keeping his gaze fixed solely ahead and not on the _sakura _trees that swayed and danced along the side of it. He kept his gaze away from the small, homely houses along the side of the street, preferring to avoid the feeling of disgust that was sure to arise at the sight of them.

Kiku had developed many quirks over the 100 years or so that he had been alive. Most of them stemmed from his more…unconventional upbringing in Tokyo during the early 20th century. A few more came from his deep nationalism and sense of spiritual pride with his home country. Others came from his personal affiliation with tradition. He was an old-fashioned man who disliked change and wrinkled his nose at the younger generation. He quite detested westernization and remembered wistfully the time before World War II. Before the military occupation of Japan which had brought about the more drastic changes.

Kiku sighed and adjusted the cuffs on his sleeves, straightening the black tie that fit so constrictively around his neck. He couldn't wait to return home. There, at least, he was free to wear his _yukata _without being accused of being old-fashioned.

The young man's stiff, measured walk brought him to the end of the street, where he regretfully brought his gaze up to look at the house that sat there.

It was a nicer house with a beautiful courtyard filled with lush grass and a garden of lilies. Kiku raised an eyebrow at the peeling paint and the splintering at the bottom of the door but walked forward down the path with an impassive expression on his face. While it might be his personal opinion that not having your home completely presentable at all times dishonoured your ancestors, he had come to recognize over the years, that it was no longer the opinion of many others.

_I feel like such an old man, _thought Kiku with a sigh as he knocked on the door. _It's almost been a century now...really much too long a time to have lived…It is not within the capacity of the human spirit to bear witness to such heart-breaking change…_

As he heard steps from inside the house, notifying him that the occupant had heard him, Kiku's gaze traveled upwards once more to the _sakura _trees that stood nearby, still swaying and dancing in the breeze.

_At least, _thought Kiku with a small smile, _the cherry blossoms still bloom with beauty and honour. _

**Hanoi, Vietnam, June 2010 **

She was, and would perpetually be, surrounded by useless people. It was a fact that she had come to accept quite some time ago and a fact that she was reminded of as she watched the quivering flunky cower in front of her. He wasn't meeting her dark, steely gaze, hadn't even looked up from the floor once since being shoved in here. He was afraid, terrified, because he was useless.

She hated useless people.

Tapping her nails against the rice paddle that lay across her lap, the young woman waited for the man to explain himself, plead for forgiveness, whatever he felt would save his skin. She had the appearance of a fairly patient woman, though she was actually quite quick-tempered, and she preferred explanations and results to be yielded quickly and without pause. Waiting for the man in front of her to grow some balls was not something she had the tolerance for.

"State your business here," she commanded, shifting in the soft leather seat and folding one stocking-covered leg over the other, still tapping her nails against her rice paddle. "Or would you rather stay silent and allow me to get straight to the punishment?"

The man jerked as if electrocuted and slowly lifted his head, revealing a dirty, blood-smeared face and twitchy eyes that flickered from side to side as if searching for an escape route. The woman stifled a sigh as she saw how blood-shot his eyes were. As a rule, she tried to avoid having her subordinates on drugs. It was one thing to trade and sell them; it was another thing entirely to be a slave to them. She preferred to be the one controlling the drugs, not having the drugs control her, and she expected the same of anyone working under her jurisdiction.

Yet another example of the uselessness of other people.

"I-I am sorry, _ma…" _stammered the man, entire body shaking as he forced himself to meet her gaze. "M-my entire stock w-was confiscated…"

The woman's eyes widened and she sat up in her chair, ceasing her drumming on the rice paddle.

"By the police?" she asked sharply, eyes narrowing. The man's shaking increased and he once again lowered his head, nodding slowly.

The Vietnamese woman forced herself to relax, un-tensing her body and resuming the tapping of her nails against the rice paddle. She placed her elbow on the arm of the chair, leaning her cheek against her fist with an exasperated expression on her face.

"Yet…you managed to get away," she drawled, masking the irritation in her voice with an apathetic tone.

"Y-Yes, _ma!_" he exclaimed, looking up as hope and pride coloured his voice for the first time. "I did not allow them to capture me, and I-,"

"Fool."

The man faltered, hopeful look falling away as the _ma _of the organization wrapped her hand around the handle of her rice paddle and gave him her coldest glare, the normal deep brown gaze appearing coal black.

"_M-ma?" _

"What right did you have to escape?" she asked harshly. "You lost your stock to the police. You notified them to drug trade in that area, as well as costing us thousands of dollars. You increased the chances of other operatives being discovered, and then you had the audacity to come running back here. If you had been captured, you could have at least passed it off as if you were working alone, but by returning here, possibly trailed, you have endangered us all."

Not completely true. If the man had stayed with the police he might have been…_persuaded _to reveal certain locations and trade sites to them. No, it was better that he had returned so that she could…take _care _of him.

The man shook, dread falling upon him as he saw the oh-so-familiar merciless look in the woman's eyes.

Because if there was one thing Linh Hoang was known for, it was her lack of forgiveness.

**Hadong-Hanoi, Vietnam- June 2010**

He considered 'sadist' to be too crude a word.

It didn't quite capture the…_beauty _of his condition. It was fine to simply say, 'that man enjoys other people's pain', but it was more fitting to say, 'that man revels in seeing the blood of others spilled. The shades of red that glitter in the dying light when a drop falls. The dark surface of a growing pool. The numerous masks of agony, sadness, surprise, and horror that can be worn by the dead and dying. They all fascinate him and fill him with glee. He finds death captivating and torture an art, and nothing makes him smile more than the first cry of pain and the first drop of blood when the first cut is delivered.'

'Sadist' did not quite encapsulate all that he was.

Humming to himself, he walked through the small, slightly slum-like neighbourhood of Hanoi. The area wasn't too bad off, with the buildings and houses in decent condition and no sign of shady characters lurking around corners. Whether that was always the case or simply because of his presence there, he wasn't sure.

Really, he was probably thinking too highly of himself if he thought that it was simply his presence that was keeping the thugs away. In reality, it was most likely the presence of the entire organization. Ha Dong was one of the most used neighbourhoods and the one most firmly under Linh's control.

He grinned, glasses flashing in the sunlight.

_How many years has it been? _He wondered to himself, hands in the pockets of his expensive suit, Italian shoes clicking against the pavement. _Decades…decades…I'ts been decades! _

The grin widened, and the man gave a little skip as he walked, laughing out loud. He stood out, from his expensive suit, to the subtle features that distinguished him as _not _Vietnamese, to the perpetual smile and aura of giddiness that came from him.

He loved life.

And he especially loved that his life wouldn't end.

The man's jaunty walk and the happy tune he was whistling faded as something began vibrating in his pocket. Pausing, he tilted his head to the side and reached down, pulling a thin cell phone out of his pocket. The man held it in front of his face, peering at the characters on the screen with a surprised expression before grinning and flipping the device open.

"Hello, _Phi Sao__!" _he chirped happily, "You don't often call me, ana~. Did you need something?" The man resumed humming as he held the phone to his ear and listened to the stern, tension-filled voice on the other end. A shocked expression flashed across his face, and he made a soft 'tutting' sound.

"Oh dear, ana~. The whole stock? That's horrible. So you want me to take care of it?"

The man's grin faded into a softer, more sinister smile as his contact continued explaining, his smile growing in size and intensity with each word..

"I see, ana~. Don't worry _Phi Sao_, Your awesome little brother Tai will take care of everything," he purred, his voice silky and reassuring. "I'll get your precious refined opium back from the police. No worries, ana~. And in return…"

Tai began walking again, turning so that he was moving in the opposite direction, walking at a slightly faster pace as anticipation rolled through his body.

"You'll let me play with the one who lost the drugs, right ana~? I can play with him?"

Tai's grin widened at the immediate response that came from the other end, and he couldn't repress the small giggle that erupted past his lips.

"Thank you very much, Linh-_chi," _he purred.

"Thank you very much, _Vietnam." _

**Chaoyang-Beijing, China-November 2010 **

"Are you in town for awhile this time, Mei?"

The young woman looked up from the paper she was reading, putting down the teacup that she had been holding. She stared at the man who had asked her the question- a squat, middle-aged Chinese waiter- before sighing. She made a motion to rub her hand across her tired eyes but quickly stopped, blinking rapidly and returning her gaze to the paper on the table. The characters and numbers on the document swam in front of her eyes, and she wanted nothing more but to down the tea quickly in one gulp with a few Advil thrown in for good measure. But that wouldn't be proper. And it certainly wouldn't reflect well on her if she couldn't even stand the pain from a simple headache.

"I'm afraid not," she replied, taking a sip from her tea before once again placing it on the table. "I will only be in town for a short time. Just to conclude the business I have here."

"Every time I see you you're here for business," snorted the man, replacing the empty kettle on Mei's table with a new one full of steaming hot water. "Tell me Mei, do you ever do anything for pleasure?"

"My work is my pleasure," replied the Taiwanese woman automatically. "I live to ensure my boss is satisfied."

The man rolled his eyes, walking away with the empty kettle. "I'll have a waitress bring you your check in a few minutes, Mei. See you around, I guess."

Mei didn't look up from her papers, and she did not reciprocate the friendly parting wave that the teashop owner had given her. Instead, she focused her gaze on the documents in front of her and picked them up, glaring at them.

No matter how hard she looked at them, the numbers didn't make sense. She'd been alive for over 90 years, and she still couldn't quite wrap her head around math. Or anything related to numbers.

So, in retrospect, being the one to travel around Asia and keep a log of the cash flow and business dealings under China's regime was not the best job for her. In fact, it was probably the worst possible job for Mei Wang.

_But that's how it's always been, _reflected Mei glumly, _It's always been like this for me…_

Mei put the papers down, succumbing to her urges and rubbing the back of her hand across her blurry dark brown eyes. She sighed, and then looked down at the tea still sitting neatly on the table.

Without a second thought, she grabbed it and chugged it down, ignoring the screaming protest from her tongue as the hot liquid burnt her mouth.

_Is this truly all I can do for you, _zhang xiong? She thought despondently, placing the empty teacup back on the table, cheeks burning with shame at her momentary lack of control.

_Over eighty years, and this is still all that I am worth to you? _

**Moscow, Russia-January 2011**

There are many different types of silence.

There is the soft silence of a moonlit night, when the entire Earth is asleep and the only sound is the near noiseless whisper of the evening breeze.

There is the busy silence, of a calm summer day, where the hush is tampered by the almost imperceptible sounds of nature. Which, while quiet, are numerous.

There is the eerie silence of a dark forest, of a time or place where the lack of sound only means the lack of warning, the lack of knowledge of what is going on, the lack of awareness of potential danger. The silence that is a harbinger doom.

And then there is the loud silence. The silence that is so noiseless, so stifling, that you can hear the blood pounding in your ears, the constant thrum of your steadily quickening heartbeat, and the harsh, ominous pressure that grows greater and greater as the silence thickens and no noise dares disturbs it.

Toris swallowed and loosened his collar, feeling increasingly uncomfortable and hot in the awkward silence that had descended upon the room. Beside him, a young teenager with tousled blonde hair- Raivis was his name -fidgeted uncomfortably, casting nervous glances around the room and shivering. Next to Raivis was an intelligent looking man with glasses who was furiously working away on his palm pilot. Toris knew him as Estonia. He didn't work enough with the man to know him personally or by anything other than his codename. He didn't work very much with Raivis either, but, like himself, the teenager was often kept close to the boss, and the two of them often encountered each other- enough times for Latvia to have revealed himself as Raivis Galante.

On the other side of the table sat two women. Toris knew them as Ukraine and Belarus, sisters of 'the boss.' They all shared the unique white-blonde hair and rather imposing presence. Even Ukraine, who never hesitated to give Toris a warm smile when she saw him, was menacing in her own way. Because Toris had seen her wear that same soft, semi-apologetic smile while firing a semi-automatic.

Then there was himself, Toris Laurinaitas. Known here as Lithuania.

He'd been given that name five years ago, when he had first joined this odd little group. 'A group for reform, change, and the greater good.' That was what it had been called. Toris could still remember the excitement he had felt when he had received an email, an _actual, direct, _email, from the one known as 'Mother Russia'. The one whose online articles he had been following for years. The one whose ideas of reforming not only Russia but his home country Lithuania, Poland, where he had grown up, and all of the surrounding countries, had captivated him and completely changed his life.

He had been ecstatic when he'd been asked to join, even though it meant leaving behind his closest friend and his adoptive family. The chance to change the world! The chance to put all the things he had preached about, all of the things he wanted into practice…

The chance of a lifetime.

And now, five years later…

Toris jumped slightly at the sound of a door opening. Beside him, Raivis jumped even higher and let out a shrill squeak. Across the table, Belarus shot them both a look of annoyance. The small teenager recoiled and sank down into the red suit he was wearing, trembling more than ever as tears formed in his eyes. Toris felt a stab of pity for the young boy but was momentarily mesmerized by the way Belarus's blue-violet eyes sparkled in their anger.

As scary as she was, the young woman was quite charming.

The sound of footsteps once again directed Toris's attention to the door at the far side of the room, and his breath caught in his throat as he saw who had entered, the foreboding silence once again falling upon the room and threatening to smother him.

"Ah, the whole family is here, da?" said Russia happily, clasping his gloved hands together. "We can begin immediately then. This is good."

_Begin what? _Thought Toris, an uncomfortable feeling cumulating in his stomach as he saw the happy light in Russia's purple eyes. _What exactly is it that you've been preparing for? _

Because five years later, Toris felt as if he didn't know anything anymore. He didn't know what Russia stood for, he didn't know what Russia wanted, and he _really _didn't know if the aims of this entire organization were what _he_ wanted. The ends no longer appeared to justify the means.

And the means were getting progressively worse.

"Little Lithuania, you are listening, da?"

Toris jerked upwards in his seat and felt a cold sweat break out over his body as Russia's chilly, violet eyes centered on him.

"Y-yes, sir!" stammered the brunette, averting his eyes quickly.

He was scared. He was scared of this man. This man whom he had devoted the past five years of his life to. Even more than that, if he counted the years he had religiously followed the his articles. Russia terrified him. Even more so due to the fact that the imposing man seemed to truly _like _Toris in some strange way.

Which made even _considering _leaving that much more impossible.

"That is good~!" said Russia in that happy, singsong tone his voice often took. He walked around the table, bypassing the chair beside Belarus (much to her displeasure) and sitting beside Toris. The Lithuanian swallowed at the sudden mass of warmth by his side and wilted under the jealous glare of the girl across the table.

He should have been used to this routine by now but really, he wasn't.

"As I was saying," continued Russia with a smile, "We have been working hard to help rebuild and reform our dearest country, correct? To try and inform the people of the corruption in the government, to try and rally support against the unjust laws…to try and bring life back to Russia. But, you see, this is completely useless if we don't destroy these problems at their _root, _da? I apologize, I have not been completely honest with you. This fight that you have joined me in, it stretches much longer into the past then you could possibly imagine, and involves many countries other than Russia. Our enemy is not just the government, but also the people who wrecked the government in the first place.  
>Two people….just two people who completely destroyed this country. Two untouchable people who have gone through their lives doing whatever they pleased on this Earth because there was nothing that could <em>remove <em>them from this Earth. They played for decades, and then they fell silent. And now, it looks like they are planning to play again. According to this."

Russia pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket, humming to himself as he unfolded it slowly. With painstaking precision, he smoothed out the edges and laid it flat on the table. Toris leaned over cautiously, and he raised an eyebrow as he saw the emboldened headline.

_**KIRKLAND COMPANY EXPANDS INTO RUSSIA. CAN THE RECOVERING COMPANY SURVIVE SUCH A BOLD MOVE?**_

"Are you following?" asked Russia suddenly, causing Toris to jump back in surprise.

"Do you understand? I trust you all now, very much. So I am willing to tell you this secret, most important part of our plan. To save our country, we must destroy the people who destroyed it in the first place. And take from them what _allowed _them to do such damage. So, my dearest family…" Russia tilted his head to the side, eyes sparkling almost mischievously. Toris was once again torn from his thoughts, and he looked up at the man sitting beside him.

"The time has finally come…" he continued, grin widening.

"For us to secure the secret to immortality."

**/**

The city was busy, cars rolling up and down the street and people walking along the sidewalks, struggling with bags or merely moving quickly to reach their destination. There was a general hum of excitement about. The country was finally getting back on its feet after the dreadful economic slump that had left millions unemployed. Now, life had returned to the city and once again, the street corners were adorned with peddlers, newspaper vendors, people selling all manor of food and people just milling about, enjoying life.

The number of cars on the street was more numerous now, as previously they had been somewhat scarce, people not having enough money to maintain themselves _and _a vehicle. Even so, the cars that had now found their way onto the road were not in the best condition.

Which was why, in theory, it wasn't such a surprise that one had blown a tire, spun out of control, and crashed into a newspaper stand.

"Didja see that!"

"Holy jumpin- what happened?"

"Is anyone hurt? Make way! Someone call the cops!"

Somewhere amidst the wreckage of the newspaper stand, a young man blinked his eyes open. There was a dull throbbing pain throughout his body, and he kinda felt like his leg might be bent in a way that it shouldn't.

_Aw hell, _he thought with a sigh, noticing the blood that had begun pooling beside his head, _of all the darndest luck…_

The youth attempted to move his body, but a sharp pain had him recoiling and gritting his teeth, his head rolling over to face the other way. His eyes blinked open again, and he noticed a few newspapers that had fallen close to his face, all with the same heading.

_**GERMAN TANKS ROLE INTO POLAND! BRITAIN AND FRANCE DECLARE WAR ON GERMANY! WAR IN EUROPE HAS OFFICIALLY BEGUN! **_

Despite the pain, the young man's lip curled up in disgust.

Who the hell gave a damn about Europe? More specifically, who the hell gave a damn about _Britain? _

"Oi! There's a guy under there! Someone help us move the car!"

The youth sighed again, wincing as whatever was on top of him shifted, relieving some of the pressure on his torso. The car- as he now guessed it was -had been pushed up onto the newspaper stand…which had also collapsed on top of him. So now, he was pinioned under broken wood from the newspaper stand with the top of the car hanging precariously over him, wheels dangling in the air. The bottom half of the car still seemed to be crushing his legs, but at least he could move his upper body.

Wait, why could he move his upper body? Shouldn't it be all…squashed?

The youth pushed himself upwards, head scraping the newspaper stand as he heard the struggles of the men trying to move the car. Puzzled, he looked down at himself. His clothes were ripped and dirty, but there was no sign of any injuries. In fact….

The young man lifted a hand hesitantly and ran it through his hair before holding it up in front of his face.

No blood. The hot liquid that had moments ago been seeping out of his skull had disappeared.

"Come on guys! There's a fellow American under there! Get that car up!"

The youth yelped in pain as the weight was completely removed from his legs, and he rapidly blinked at the stream of light that had filtered into his coffin of wood and metal.

Than he paused.

Then he stared.

The young man watched in fascination (and horror) as his legs simultaneously twisted and turned, the white that had been protruding form the flesh popping back in, and the blood that had seeped from the wounds retracting, the liquid being completely absorbed out of the cloth of his pants. The bones realigned themselves, and he watched through a tear in his pants as the flesh across his knee knitted itself together.

_What the flying fu-_

"Heave!"

The car that had been lifted was flung to the side, and the young man found himself coughing at the amount of dust and dirt it sent up into the air as it hit the ground. Rubbing the grit out of his eyes, the youth found himself staring up at a crowd of people, their faces full of worry and horror…then confusion….then shock.

Alfred F. Jones rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly before pushing the remains of the newspaper stand off of himself and getting to his feet. Completely uninjured.

"Erm…," he said, laughing nervously. "Hero's luck?"

**New York City, United States of America- September 4****th****, 1939 **

**/**

**Please stick around! This is going to be one monster of a story and it's really going to pick up and get convoluted and interesting. Things aren't going to make much sense for awhile because I'm evil, but that's part of the fun. :3 **

**Oh, this fic was inspired by the anime/manga/novel Baccano. It's not a retelling of it or anything, but some elements will be the same. E.g. Crime families, immortality, exceptionally irritating back and forth timeline...**

**:3**

**Please review! I've got a lot of chapters pre-written, so updates depend on the response! Shower me with love! This story is my baby and I've been working on it for over a year!**

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p**

**/**

Chapter 2: A long time ago, in a Galaxy far, far away…Or rather, 90 years ago, in Japan….


	2. It Wasn't by Chance that I Met You

_Chapter 2 _

"_It wasn't by chance that I met you.__** This is what they call fate.**__" _

-Take Off, **2PM**

**Manhattan, Unites States of America- January, 1922 **

The air was frosty, biting and vicious. Nipping at people mercilessly as it whipped and whirled down the busy street, whistling between buildings and through crowds. The cold wind blew harshly, blowing up the hems of jackets and sending top hats tumbling to the ground or whisking them away all together. All around, people were bundled up tightly in their thick coats, warm scarves and woolen gloves. The sky was gray, but bright, and that coupled with the lack of snow made the day look nowhere near as cold as it felt.

"Bloody hell, isn't America s'pposed to be warm?" cursed the man irritably, rubbing his gloved hands together. He cupped them and blew, sending a cloud of misty breath into the chilly January air as he tried to warm himself.

"Language please," said his associate with a sigh, wrapping his own scarf tighter about his neck. Appropriate conduct and gentlemanly behavior was a must…even if it _was _bloody cold.

"My apologies Mr. Kirkland," said the first man, ceasing his frantic motions and straightening his back before looking sheepishly towards his boss. Mr. Kirkland merely raised one of his notable eyebrows before pulling his top hat down further atop his sandy-blonde hair.

"Simply mind yourself better in the future," he said sternly, but not with any degree of menace or true annoyance. He was shivering himself and he sank his chin deep into the folds of his scarf.

"It _is _cold though," he commented with a sigh. "Let's hurry and get this business taken care of. The sooner we get back to England the better. I'm sure you're itching to get back to your son, right James?"

James grinned and nodded vigorously. "Howard is growing like you wouldn't believe. He'll be five soon. Five!"

Mr. Kirkland smiled at the man's excitement and love for his family but found his smile strained and his mind wandering, as he began thinking of his own son, not yet nine years old. Their relationship was…mediocre at best, and there appeared to be a growing gap between what Mr. Kirkland _thought _his son wanted and what the boy actually seemed to desire.

The Englishman sighed and he found himself wishing that he could stay in this country longer and avoid the conflict, arguments, and tension that awaited him at home.

Despite the cold, America was a pleasant place. It had a constant busy hum to it and while England had a similar thrum of activity the busy streets of Manhattan just seemed more…_alive _somehow. The way the people moved, the way they interacted with each other. The busyness that wasn't just business. A person walking might just be walking with no place to go, with no aim, and no purpose. A happy aimlessness that was different from London, where everyone had an agenda. Manhattan had an almost easy-going, joyful vibe that said that most of its inhabitants loved simply _living _and not living for any monetary or materialistic reasons.

Of course, that wasn't to say that the place was perfect. No, the homeless people on the street corners, shivering under newspapers and braced against the wind, were a harsh reminder that no Utopia could exist, even in a land of dreams like America.

Mr. Kirkland's eyes peered out from under his hat, watching a young couple with large shopping bags skip down the sidewalk with a giddy looking boy in between them.

Of course, the Englishman might be biased. His own home life and existence in London had become so frustrating lately that any place was likely to look better than the British city. There was nothing wrong with London itself, and yet, Mr. Kirkland was rather sick of it. Sick of the businessmen and their lies. Sick of the people there, still floating on euphoria after their victory in the war. And sick of the fact that he, the head of a major company and one of the most influential people in Europe, could not for all his money, seem to get along with his son.

"Hey! Hey! Thief! Stop thief!"

Both James and Mr. Kirkland paused in their stiff, quick walk, the younger of the two turning around with wide eyes while the elder man just looked back over his shoulder with an exasperated, somewhat irritated expression.

"Oi, what's all the commotion about?" inquired James, peering forward with eager eyes at the excitement and movement going on in a particularly loud crowd by a series of street-vendors.

"Ignore it James," commanded Mr. Kirkland sternly, "American theft is no different than British theft. Let's go."

The younger man seemed to deflate a little but he nodded at his boss's request and turned his head with a sigh, snuggling deeper into his jacket collar. "Yeah, ye-I mean, yes. Yes, you're quite right sir. My apologies." James flushed at his momentary slip-up and hid his face in his scarf, averting his eyes. Mr. Kirkland resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his young assistant who, despite having recently turned thirty, still had a tendency to act quite immature.

The two British men resumed walking, and Mr. Kirkland bit back a sigh as he noticed a few white flakes beginning to drift down past his eyes, one of them stinging his nose with cold as it landed. The Englishman shook his head as water ran down the front of his nose and bit back a groan of annoyance. However much irritation he might feel with his homeland, he would take England's perpetual rain over this infernal white stuff any day.

Lost in his thoughts as he was, Mr. Kirkland did not hear the rapid pitter-patter of feet behind him, nor did he pay attention to the cacophony of shouts and curses coming from the collection of street vendors that they had just walked by. As such, he was understandably surprised when James let out a shout from behind him, and something large suddenly crashed into his legs.

"Wa-,"

"Oof!"

Mr. Kirkland's knees buckled and he was saved from falling only by his cane, which he leaned on heavily as he tried to keep his balance.

"Mr. Kirkland! Are you alright? Answer me sir!" James was at his side in an instance, holding onto his arm and helping to stop him from falling forward. Mr. Kirkland shook his head, trying to regain his bearings.

_What the bloody hell just happened? _He thought to himself in astonishment, eyes growing wide at the sheer _force _he had been hit with. Mr. Kirkland turned around, steadying himself on James's supportive arm and standing up straight.

The sight he was met with was not one that he expected to see, though not necessarily a strange sight in a city as big and poverty stricken as New York.

It was a boy, looking to be no older than six if that. Messy dark blonde hair, with a single piece sticking defiantly upwards, hung into dazed dark blue eyes. The boy was young, younger than his own son, and, Mr. Kirkland realized with one glance, clearly living in poverty.

Tattered pants that barely reached his ankles, a once white shirt with a frayed, oversized grey vest hanging off of it and shoes with holes in the front, so that tiny toes could be seen. It was obvious the entire outfit had seen better days.

Then there was what the boy was carrying. Or what he had been carrying before he had crashed into Mr. Kirkland. A scattering of buns were spread out across the dirty pavement and as soon as the boy came to his senses he began frantically gathering them up, casting panicked glances back over his shoulder towards the crowd of street vendors.

Clearly, this boy had been stealing.

"Oi! Don't go runnin' into people like that!" snapped James irritably at the boy. The youngster looked up at the two Englishmen, having finished gathering up his stolen goods, and stuck his tongue out defiantly.

"Nyeh! Stuffy ol' farts! Shoulda watched where yous was walkin'!" he replied angrily in a thick Brooklyn accent, before resuming his frantic flee from whomever he had stolen from.

"Now wait just a minute!" fumed James, making motions to chase after the boy. Mr. Kirkland, however, tightened his grip on his young associates arm, causing the young man to stop.

"Let him be," said Mr. Kirkland, staring after the boy with a somewhat saddened expression. "I'm sure he needed the bread more then the one who was selling it anyways. Poverty is painful to see in children. That child…"

Mr. Kirkland shook his head, suddenly feeling like a leaden weight had settled into his chest.

"That child was younger than Arthur."

/

Alfred was feeling particularly lucky. It wasn't often that he got away with stealing so much at one time. The man who had been selling the buns had been so engrossed in a conversation with a rich-looking lady that he hadn't even seen the young boy grab an armful of food. Alfred had managed to get halfway down the street before nosy citizens had pointed out his theft.

Still, he had gotten away with his prize and the young American was feeling quite proud of himself. The warmth of accomplishment that spread through him was almost enough to banish the cold that had wrapped around his body. The winter winds bit at his unshielded toes, blew down his tattered shirt and through his matted hair, sent shivers up and down his spine and caused his nose to drip uncontrollably. But he had food and that made it all go away in the glow of achievement.

Alfred wiped away the drippage with his sleeve, taking care to maintain a tight hold on his buns as he did. It had been a chore keeping hold of them the whole time he was running. He thought that he might have lost a few, particularly when he had run into those two old guys.

Alfred scowled at that. He had worked _hard _to steal all these buns and then some stupid stiffs who talked funny had made him lose some! The young boy mumbled angrily to himself for a few moments before his irritated face gave way to a triumphant smile as he realized that he really _had_ gotten away. That thought in mind, he finally stopped running and slowed to a brisk walk as his destination came into view.

It was a small, abandoned warehouse. Somewhat spacious, empty, and with holes dotting the roof. It really wasn't that much larger than your average house, and looked more like a large shack then a warehouse. The wood was rotting in many areas and the left back corner of the structure had collapsed and was covered up with badly hammered in planks and a number of blankets sewn together. The main doors were padlocked and rusted shut so that the only way in and out was through one of the many of the holes dotted about the exterior. Alfred made his way towards one of these holes, clutching at the buns that were beginning to escape the confines of his arms. The young boy hummed to himself, some song that had been stuck in his head for as long as he could remember. He thought that one day he'd put lyrics to it or maybe pay someone to do it for him!

Alfred smiled at the idea of getting someone to work for him and maneuvered his way through a hole in the wall, struggling to maintain his hold on the buns as he did and losing a few in the process.

"Mattie!" he called excitedly as he entered the warehouse, ignoring the few buns he had dropped and calling out for his brother. "Hey Mattie! Yous won't believe how much food I nicked this time! I knows ya don't like it when I steal but-,"

Alfred stopped his speech as he heard a soft sound echoing around the small warehouse, a quiet, but easily recognizable sound.

Coughing.

"Mattie?" called Alfred again, worry causing him to drop his buns as he dashed towards the corner of the Warehouse where his brother had been resting. "Mattie! Hey Mattie yous ain't still coughin' are ya? Yous said yous was feelin' better, right? Mattie? Mattie? Mattie?"

There was no answer as Alfred ran towards the small form hidden under a mound of blankets in the dark corner. The young blonde's heart hammered in his chest as he approached, worry erasing the previous feelings of happiness and accomplishment that had moments ago consumed him.

"Mattie?"

In the corner, snuggled up in a pile of torn, thin-looking blankets, was another young boy. Similar to Alfred in both age and looks with wavy pale blonde hair and a flushed, skinny face. The boy's red-rimmed eyes opened a crack, revealing striking violet orbs that looked up at the other boy blurrily.

"A-Al?" he whispered, before his voice dissolved into harsh, phlegmy, coughing.

"Ack! Mattie!" cried Alfred in horror, falling to his knees and sidling up to his brother's side. "I thought yous stopped bein' sick! Why is yous still coughin'? H-hey! Hey!"

The younger boy doubled up in a coughing fit, curling up into a ball and tugging the blankets closer to him as his entire body shook violently.

_Mattie…_

Alfred swallowed thickly, hands trembling as he laid them on his brother's shaking form and eyes wide as Mattie's breath began coming out in short, painful wheezes. Alfred's breath hitched in his throat as he saw tears snaking their way down Mattie's dirty cheeks and a sob burst forth his lips.

"Mattie…" he whispered, clutching the blankets that covered his brother tightly, feeling the boy's severe trembling and the waves of unhealthy heat coming off of his body.

"_Please don't die!_"

/

"Blimey sir, have you seen some of this stuff? Some o' these chocolates are glowing I swear! You think these would still look this fancy if I took them back to London? Do you think Howard would fancy them? Or Lillian! Do you think Lily would like them?"

Mr. Kirkland resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the ceaseless excitement of his young assistant, who currently had his face pressed against the window of a sweet shop. The older man shuffled a bit, shivering in the icy wind that was blowing through. The temperature seemed to have dropped by several degrees since their walk to Mr. Kirkland's appointment with an important business associate, earlier that morning. The journey back to their hotel was proving to be much less enjoyable than the stroll to their meeting place had been. The air was crisper, colder, and large flakes of snow were blowing past at a heavier and heavier rate. Mr. Kirkland was beginning to regret not getting a driver to ferry them places. He had originally declined the offer because he had wished to experience the city of Manhattan without having it whiz by him too fast to see. Now, he wished for the warmth of a station wagon and the shortened distance between point A and point B. The cold chilled him to the bone and his joints were beginning to ache in the most annoying fashion.

_I'm too young to feel this old_, bemoaned the Englishman internally. _Why am I so old? It's probably the cane. Should not have bought the bloody cane. I'm only thirty-nine for Christ's-, _

"Help! Please! Somebody help!"

Mr. Kirkland was torn from his thoughts by a panicked, pleading voice coming from further up the street. The man looked in the direction curiously, his grip tightening around the hated cane as if in anticipation of stopping whatever was causing the unidentified voice harm. James tore his face away from the window, pouting as if upset at having been interrupted in picking out the perfect chocolate for his son and his wife. "Oi, what's all that racket?" he inquired, an irritated look on his face as he straightened up.

"I don't know," frowned Mr. Kirkland, trying to see through the crowds and the increasing haze of falling snow. "Perhaps we should go and see."

James grimaced, shivering in the cold wind and shifting his feet slightly. "Well, it's like you said," muttered the young man, pulling the collar of his coat up against the harsh winds, "Whatever is going on here isn't different then what would happen back home. Some one will help whomever it is out. Manhattan's a big city, and we're not exactly locals. What would we do? Direct them to the nearest hospital or police station when we don't know where they are?"

Mr. Kirkland frowned deeper and part of him wanted to reprimand James for the impertinence he had heard in the younger man's voice, while the other part reasoned that what he had said was true. Whoever it was that needed help would receive much better aid from someone who actually _lived _here rather than from two foreigners.

Mr. Kirkland gave a curt nod, stifling a sigh at the unpleasant feeling that had settled in his stomach, and continued walking. James gave a partly triumphant smile before shoving his hands into his pocket and following after his boss.

"Please, anybody, help my brother! Please!"

Mr. Kirkland stiffened as he heard the voice again, this time closer than before. It sounded painfully young and tugged at his heartstrings. That was the one thing that had really changed in the times since his wife had had Arthur. Previous to having a son, he'd been able to turn a blind eye to the poverty in the streets. He'd been able to walk by an urchin with no shoes begging for money. He'd been able to ignore it, just like everyone else.

But now, hearing a child's voice crying for help, knowing that the child could be Arthur's age or younger...And the fact that the cries hadn't stopped, that it seemed like no one was going to the child's aid…

"_Please!" _

Mr. Kirkland stopped abruptly, causing James to bump into him with a startled sound.

"Oi! Sir, what's the mat-,"

Mr. Kirkland began walking quickly towards the left, the direction from which he had heard the crying voice. As James began questioning his actions, a determined, stubborn look appeared on the older man's face. The famous 'Kirkland' face of absolute tenacity and steadfast gentlemanly pig-headedness.

Yes the locals were more able to deal with whatever situation was eliciting those cries, yes it was cold and he should really just go back to his hotel, yes it _really _was none of business. But Mr. Kirkland had a soft heart under his gruff business like exterior and moreover, he had a son who used to use that exact tone of voice when pleading for his father to play with him.

"Somebody…please…"

It didn't take the Englishman long to find the source of the voice. Weaving his way through the sidewalk crowd, he made his way over to a narrow passageway between two buildings, at the mouth of which stood the cause of the distressed cry.

Mr. Kirkland's eyes widened in surprise, bushy brows going straight up into his hairline as he recognized the young boy who had run into him earlier.

This time, however, there appeared to be two of them.

There was the first boy, who was standing with tears running from his swollen eyes and hoarsely calling out for help. Then there was the second boy, who the first boy had slung across his back in piggyback position. This boy was completely still, with his head lolling against the first boy's shoulder and entire body hanging limp.

"Somebody please help my brother!" screamed the first boy, taking a few staggering steps forward before falling onto his hands and knees.

Mr. Kirkland rushed forward, kneeling in front of the boy and placing his hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright, lad? What's the matter?" asked the Englishman, casting a concerned look at the other boy, the one who hung limply and who hadn't moved an inch.

The first boy looked up in surprise, blue eyes wide. "M-my b-brother is s-sick," he sobbed, entire body shaking, "I-I th-think he's g-gonna d-d-die…"

Mr. Kirkland's face paled and he took a closer look at the second boy.

Indeed, the boy did not appear to be in good condition. He was worryingly pale except for the unhealthy flush on his cheeks. His hair was damp from either snow or sweat and hung in limp blonde waves around his face. The boy was breathing shallowly and his face was scrunched up in pain and discomfort. Mr. Kirkland reached out a tentative hand towards the child but found the boy yanked out of reach by his brother, who scurried backwards with a panicked look on his face.

"Watcha gonna do? Don't hurt him!" screamed the young boy, eliciting glances from several of the passerbys who had previously been ignoring him. "If you hurt him I'll…I'll…I'll biff ya somethin' awful!"

Mr. Kirkland paled and held up both hands in a placating gesture, astounded by the sheer volume emitted by such a thin-looking boy. "Now, now lad, calm down. You've been calling for help right? That's all I want to do, help you and your brother." The Englishman cast a worried look at the other boy, who hadn't moved at all despite his brother's loud outburst.

_He looks extremely ill, _thought Mr. Kirkland, brow furrowed with worry, _and he's barely clothed…in this weather…_

Mr. Kirkland once again moved closer to the two little boys but the conscious boy moved backwards, retreating into the alley with a panicked look. The Englishman gritted his teeth and moved back slightly, feeling a rising sense of urgency as he watched the sick boy's harsh breathing give way to coughing, the now heavily falling snow settling into his hair and on his back. While trying to think of a way to get the boy to trust him, Mr. Kirkland suddenly stiffened, noting for the first time that James had come up behind him and was standing by anxiously.

"Sir…" began the young man hesitantly while casting a wary glance towards the young boy crouched in front of his boss. The youth recoiled at the new man, sticking his tongue out as he did but with panic in his red-rimmed eyes.

Fearing that the scared boy was likely to bolt at any moment, Mr. Kirkland turned to give James a stern look. "Hush James, give me a moment," he shushed, before pausing and looking over his assistant's shoulder to the busy street behind. "Actually, James, do you mind hailing down a cab?" asked the older man, watching the thick snowflakes with increasing concern. His eyes slid back towards the shivering boy in the alleyway and his sickly brother. Both were dressed in threadbare clothes, attire not suitable for decent weather, let alone an increasing snowstorm. The sick boy appeared to be wearing socks but no shoes, while the other boy had too-small shoes but no socks. Despite his belligerence, the apparent elder brother was shivering and an unhealthy flush was beginning to colour his cheeks as well.

_They need to get out of this weather…_

James startled slightly, surprised by his boss's request. His eyes narrowed suspiciously and he cast a suspicious, somewhat contemptuous look at the boys cowering in the alleyway.

"Sir," began the young man sternly, "If I may…I realize you…your heart is in the right place but honestly, the little brats are just going to run off with your wallet the second you turn your back and the smaller one gets tired of playing sick. It's like you said before, America isn't any different from England."

"This is what I'm saying _now!_" thundered Mr. Kirkland in a loud voice he rarely ever used, a stern, angered voice that caused his young assistant to jump. "I will _not _simply walk by and let two little boys freeze to death! Regardless of whether or not they plan to steal my belongings, they will die if left alone. Or do you not see the snow falling in front of your face? Has your affluence so desensitized you from the plights of others? Do you truly intend to have me walk away from children younger than Arthur? One of them sick and in need of medical attention, while the other is sure to follow if he continues living in these conditions? If this is truly your opinion on the matter, than I _gravely_ misjudged your character when I hired you. Now, James, go do what you're paid to do; obey me. _Go hail a cab."_ Mr. Kirkland's last statement came out as a harsh snarl and James recoiled as if he had been slapped, a stricken expression on his face. He took a step back before nodding stiffly and turning away, running to the side of the sidewalk while waving his hand in the air somewhat frantically.

Mr. Kirkland stood proud and angry as he stared after his young assistant before deflating like a balloon. He released his breath in a loud sigh and took off his looming top hat to run a hand through his sandy locks.

James was young. He had never known poverty, his family being a well-off, well-known English family that the Kirklands had been working with closely for a few generations now. He had grown up in the same manner that Mr. Kirkland himself had; with his nose sharply upturned to the plights of those 'beneath' him and with a conditioned blind eye towards the poor.

Mr. Kirkland felt a twinge of guilt as he turned away from his young assistant, but he brushed it off. James was in the wrong here. No questions asked.

A harsh cough caused Mr. Kirkland to whirl around, his attention once again on the young boys. The boy he presumed to be older, the one who was carrying his brother, was looking up at him with a puzzled and somewhat stunned expression. The Englishman withered on the inside. Had his outburst destroyed any chance he had had of making the child unafraid of him?

The child stared unblinking at the man and Mr. Kirkland cleared his throat awkwardly, preparing to try and placate the boy.

"Wow," said the boy, blinking his wide blue eyes and interrupting Mr. Kirkland's thoughts, "Ya sure gots a loud voice. Heard ya right over da city noise. An', t'was real nice whatcha said. Y'all dressed real nice an' stuff. Nice-dressed people ain't usually nice. Theys always tryin' ta take us to da cops or somethin'. Didn't 'spect a nice-dressed person ta stop when I started hollerin'."

Mr. Kirkland blinked, stunned at the sudden rush of words from the young boy who, moments before, had been screaming at him, terrified.

"Oi, Mista," continued the boy, waddling out of the alleyway to stand in front of the Englishman. "You really mean it, ya gonna 'elp us? Me an' Mattie? Mattie's real sick ya know…I…I'm real scared…" the boy's sudden rush of confidence disappeared as he hung his head, tears once again dripping down his cheeks as he took the limp hand of his brother.

"P-please," he whimpered in a heart-breaking voice, "I…I'm s'posed ta protect him. I'm 'is big brotha…I'm s'pposed ta b-be his h-hero!"

Mr. Kirkland's heart positively broke as the little boy broke down into sobs and he knelt in front of the young child.

"There, there, don't cry," soothed the man, awkwardly patting the boy on the head. He mentally sighed in relief when the child didn't flinch or pull away and continued with his movements, inching closer as he did. "Listen, you're here aren't you? Out in the cold? And it's all for your brother, right? That means you're doing a splendid job of protecting him. I mean, it might have been better if you had left him inside instead of exposing him to the elements, but…"

Mr. Kirkland trailed off as the young boy looked up at him, a stricken look on his face.

_Dammit, I never could talk to children, _cursed the man internally, _even Arthur…_

"S-sir."

The boy drew back, looking up distrustfully at James, who had hesitantly appeared behind Mr. Kirkland. The older man turned around, slightly irritated at having the progress he had made regressed. However, his eyes softened as he saw the dejected and somewhat pained expression on James's face.

"Ah," said the elder man somewhat awkwardly, "Did you-?"

"Yes," replied James automatically, before flushing and recoiling as if apologetic for interrupting. "Y-yes, th-there is a cab waiting." Mr. Kirkland nodded, turning away from his assistant. Just looking at the young man's depressed face was causing his conscience to send waves of discomfort through his stomach.

_I'll talk to him later, _sighed the man internally, _but right now…_

The boy had retreated into the alley again, looking at James with pure distrust. There was a pout to his lips and his entire body was shivering. His brother had begun coughing again, and tears were gathering in the eyes of both boys.

"Now, now," soothed Mr. Kirkland, once again turning his full attention to the boys, "I thought we were on better terms! Come now, come out, please?"

A few long seconds later, the boy inched himself and the brother he was carrying out of the alleyway. The blonde boy sent a particularly nasty glare at James. The young assistant actually flinched under the intense stare and, with a glance towards his boss, retreated to the cab.

Mr. Kirkland could visibly see the boy relax and he couldn't help but smile as the young American gave him a small smile once James had gone.

"I dun like 'im, m'glad he's gone," mumbled the boy, shivering more than ever, stamping his feet as he did. "W-wotcha need a cab f-for anyways? G-gonna call a d-doctor? 'urry please, I'm w-worried 'bout M-Mattie…'so cold, y-y'know?"

Mr. Kirkland's heart clenched painfully again. "Mattie? Is that your brother's name?"

The boy looked up, seeming a bit surprised at the question. He nodded once, casting a worried glance over his shoulder, where his brother's head lolled limply.

"And what's your name?" asked the Englishman.

"A-Alfred," responded the American, looking more and more detached from the environment as he began to shiver more violently, his blue eyes blinking lethargically.

_Bollocks. _Cursed Mr. Kirkland internally. "Well Alfred, I'm going to take you and Mattie to see a doctor, okay? We're going to go in the cab, to the hotel I'm staying at, and- _bloody hell!_"

Mr. Kirkland just managed to lunge forward and catch the two Americans as Alfred toppled forward, his eyes slipping shut as he finally succumbed to the cold that had been nipping mercilessly at his body.

"Dammit!" cursed the Brit aloud, "James! James get over here! I need you to carry one of these boys back to the cab!"

Mr. Kirkland gently eased the brothers to the ground before quickly taking off his jacket. He wrapped the article of clothing around the younger one, Mattie, and picked him up carefully. James rushed over and, quickly assessing the situation, picked up Alfred. The young man's mouth was in a straight line, and he kept whatever opinions he might have had about the situation to himself. Mr. Kirkland nodded to his assistant before rushing quickly towards the cab.

_I don't know what I'm doing..._thought the British man, wincing at the unhealthy heat coming off of the young boy in his arms, _but I can't let these boys die out here. I don't know what it is, but I feel…responsibly for them somehow. _

Mr. Kirkland looked down at Mattie. The boy's face was pale with an unhealthy red at the cheeks and sweat beading his brow. His hair was wet and clung to his skin; his mouth open as harsh, grating breathing came through.

Mr. Kirkland gritted his teeth angrily.

_No matter where I go, it's the same. It's always the innocent who suffer for the mistakes of the arrogant. _

_No matter what, I will not let these boys die. _

**Tokyo, Japan- March, 1922**

"Wang Yao will be transferred to your faction."

Kiku looked up from the work he was doing, momentarily distracted by the interaction between his father and the messenger that had just appeared in the doorway. His hold on his brush loosened slightly, before he remembered that he was supposed to be practicing his characters and he dropped his head back down with a shamed blush. Despite his attempts at concentration, the words of the conversation still reached his ears.

"What?" hissed his _otou-sama, _brow creased in anger, "This is unacceptable! I won't have that-,"

"Sir," interrupted the man, his mouth set in a firm line, "This is not a request. This is an order. Wang Yao will be placed under your jurisdiction. He will be transferred tonight. I trust you'll take the proper procedures to…make him feel welcome_." _

The messenger bowed deeply before turning around and leaving, sliding the door of the house shut behind him.

Unable to resist, Kiku lifted his head, blinking owlishly as he watched his Father's stiff and angered movements as he moved away from the door and stalked across the room to the kitchen entrance. The young boy winced as his father wrenched the kitchen door open and then pulled it shut forcefully. The walls of the room shook and Kiku let out a small noise of despair as the ink he had been using swished about and threatened to spill over the side of the container.

What was going on? Why was _Otou-sama _so upset? Who was Wang Yao?

Kiku frowned as the ink finally calmed down and stared at his paper with a pensive look on his face, before turning his head to look towards the door that the messenger had stood at seconds ago.

The young Japanese boy knew better than to pry into his father's affairs and he knew that his father was not the calmest person and was often presented with situations that frustrated him. But such a reaction to a mere name…

And what a name it was.

Wang Yao. Kiku had never heard a name that sounded like that before. And he had never heard of the Wang family either. The youth knew all the families that made up the network that his father belonged to. The Matsumoto, Sawada, and his own family, the Honda. Powerful Japanese who had been in power for decades. Kiku's family in particular was very powerful and the youth took pride in knowing that his _otou-sama _had achieved the rank of 'Right-hand', _Wakagashira. _One day, Kiku would be the Right Hand to the future boss, as his family had been since the beginning of their complex organization. One day, it would be he who handled the affairs of their community with dignity and grace.

But first he had to learn all his _Kanji _characters, and stop thinking about 'Wang Yao' and things that did not, at the moment, concern him.

Kiku tightened his hold on the brush again and pushed up the sleeves of his _yukata. _He dipped the tip of the brush into the now calm well of ink and began slowly, painstakingly, copying down the unfamiliar script.

For now, this was all that he had to worry about.

**/**

The dojo was a forbidden area.

It was the area where his _otou-sama _often met with his subordinates and officers; the place where they would occasionally spar with their fierce-looking swords and even fiercer looking faces. This was the place where his father had his men settle disputes. If there were arguments over money, who had got it, who had lost it, then it would be fought out in here. Sumo was a popular form of fighting, both to solve issues and to simply let off steam when the old men wanted to 'play'. There was almost always something going on in the Honda dojo and as such, it was one of the many places in the residence that Kiku was forbidden from entering.

The courtyard, the main dining room, his Father's bedroom, those were others.

Kiku had no interest in the main dining room. It was a spacious room, with ornate decorations and a large table in the center. Due to the number of expensive artifacts and adornments in the room, Kiku had never been allowed in it. And he never really had a wish to. Like most young children, he had a tendency to loose control of his limbs and knock things over or trip frequently. Not good traits to take into a room full of priceless heirlooms and relics.

Contrastingly, Kiku would have jumped at the opportunity to go out into the courtyard and see the _sakura _trees, something he was never allowed to do unless accompanied by several of his Father's subordinates. He never really understood why that was but as a respectful and dutiful young son, he obeyed his _otou-sama's _wishes and did not leave the house by himself.

His father's room was, perhaps, the most forbidden. Kiku had never had so much as a glimpse inside so he was not sure why the area was so taboo. He guessed that not entering the room was a part of showing respect for his _otou-sama _and gave it wide berth.

Kiku was an obedient, dutiful son. He did what he was told. He listened to his elders.

But he was a seven-year-old boy.

And when left alone for long periods of time he got bored.

And he got curious.

Which brought him to the point he was at today, one hand on the door of the dojo, which he had just pushed open. Eyes wide as he peered within.

It was okay to go in, just this once, wasn't it?

The young boy took in a sharp breath as he stepped onto the matted floor, body shaking as he took in the absolute emptiness of the room. Kiku swallowed nervously before stepping further into the dojo. His attention was immediately drawn to the far wall, which had an array of _katana _sitting on spikes or strapped with thick leather to the wall. Kiku took quick steps towards that side of the room, looking furtively over his shoulder as he did.

Kiku reached the far wall and he stared up in awe at the weapons that stretched from one side to the other. His dark eyes blinked rapidly and he took a step back, craning his neck upwards to get a better view of the selections closer to the ceiling. Kiku's eyes widened at the sparkling blades with the ornamental handles and his gaze trailed down the wall to follow a selection of long, thin blades, varying only in the intricate designs of their hilts and the characters inscribed onto their blades. The youth let out a short gasp as he saw a particular blade near the middle of the wall. It seemed rather plain in comparison to the intricate designs of the other swords, as it lacked designs or characters and was simply a straight, silver blade with a black hilt. But Kiku was taken with it. The gleam of its surface, the slight curve of the blade, the unblemished silver, and the single, deadly point at the tip. Unconsciously, Kiku extended a hand upwards, as if yearning to touch it. He stretched up on to his tippy toes, his sandals bending underneath his feet as he reached…

"What are you doing?"

Kiku gasped and whirled around, eyes wide as he frantically began muttering apologies and bowing. Oh no! He'd thought that no one would be in the house today…but he had been discovered. _Otou-sama _would be angry….

"_S-sumimasen!" _he stammered, bowing low again and again. "I th-thought I was allowed in here today. I-I will leave immediately-,"

"Hold on, _aru_. Stop panicking."

Kiku halted his frantic apologies and bowing. He lifted his head, brow creased in confusion at the strange accent and choice of words that his mysterious visitor had just used. In what region of Japan did they end their sentences with 'aru'?

As he straightened, Kiku saw the stranger clearly for the first time. It appeared to be a boy, older than him, with black hair tied back in a ponytail and an overlong green _yukata _sagging about his feet. There was something odd about the boy's facial features and Kiku's surprise was momentarily pushed aside as he stared at the stranger, trying to determine what was off about him.

"I'm Chinese," said the boy, interrupting Kiku'a thoughts as well as startling him.

"Wh-what?" stammered Kiku, face red at having been caught so blatantly staring.

"I'm not Japanese, _aru. _I'm Chinese, from the mainland of Asia," continued the boy, what looked like a smirk playing about the corners of his lips. "That's why I look different from you, _aru. _No need to stare."

Kiku blushed a deeper red before shaking his head rigorously. "I-I wasn't staring!" he denied, confusion and humiliation rolling through him.

"You _were, aru," _laughed the boy. "That's fine, I don't mind."

The Chinese boy walked into the dojo, his eyes traveling about the room with interest. Kiku's eyebrows shot up at the lack of respect as the foreigner unceremoniously prodded at the weapons in one of the neat piles on the floor and even picked a wooden sword up and swung it experimentally.

"H-hey!" protested Kiku, running up to the older boy. "Y-you can't do that! Ch-children aren't allowed to touch the weapons without an adult's permission!"

The Chinese boy turned his head slightly, an amused arch to his eyebrows. "Oh? Well, lucky for me I'm not a child then. Unlike _you, aru." _Kiku flinched at the boy's sharp tone, before his eyes narrowed and his small hands clenched into fists.

How _dare _he? He might only be seven years old, but he was still Honda Kiku, son of the First Lieutenant of the _Gama _family Yakuza. One day, he would be First Lieutenant to the next _Oyabun. _Even though he was still just a child, his father's subordinates still treated him with respect.

This _Chinese boy _should be no exception.

"Do you know who I am?" hissed Kiku angrily. "_Watashi wa Honda Kiku desu!" _

"Oh?" replied the Chinese boy, turning to fully face Kiku with a slightly amused look on his face. "_Hajimemashite, Kiku-kun. Watashi wa Wang Yao aru." _

Kiku's eyes grew wide, both at the casual way that the foreigner was addressing him (_nobody _called him _Kiku-kun_. It was either _Bocchan _or occasionally, _Honda-kun_) and at the name that he had just introduced himself as.

Wang Yao.

The reason his Father had been frustrated and angry two days before.

That was this boy? This Foreigner who couldn't have been more than a few years older than him?

"Have you heard of me, _aru?" _asked Yao with a smirk, obviously noticing Kiku's surprise, "I've been in the family for awhile. Not as important or as outright as your father of course, but I've gotten around, _aru. _I've made quite a name for myself and done a lot for the _Oyabun. _I'm ten years old but I'm already quite respected. _And," _Yao grinned, taking a few steps closer and bending so that he and Kiku were at eye level. "I'm considered an adult, _aru._"

Kiku's cheeks flushed red with shame and he suddenly found himself at a loss for words. What was he supposed to say? This…this Wang Yao. He was only three years older than him, but he was respected in the family, _for himself. _Not because of who his Father was or what his Father did, but because of who _he _was.

"This is a nice dojo, _aru," _continued Yao, turning away from Kiku as if having lost interest in the previous conversation. "There are a lot of weapons. More than there were at the other house I was staying with." The Chinese youth hefted the wooden sword over one shoulder and spun on his heel, tilting his head to the side as he once again face Kiku. "Did your Father collect them all himself?" he inquired, unusual amber eyes centered on the Japanese youth.

The seven year old startled slightly before nodding shyly, a deep red blush across his cheeks. He hadn't realized how important and powerful Wang-_san _was. Now, he was sure to face reparations from his Father when the man found out about how rudely he had addressed his subordinate.

And he had been having such a _good _day!

"I-I don't know," stammered Kiku, bowing deeply. "A-and I apologize for earlier. It was disrespectful."

"Don't be sorry, _aru_," replied Yao, with a shrug, "You have a right to be proud of your family name. But," the ten-year-old's eyes darkened, "Remember, you have done nothing yourself to warrant that respect, so be mindful of how you expect others to treat you. Not everyone will roll over onto their backs and show their bellies when they hear your Father's name. Prepare for a time when it will no longer shield you."

Kiku blinked rapidly, and he found himself bowing again, unsure of exactly what Yao meant (the Hondaswould _always _be in power) but instinctively feeling like he had been given a great piece of advice and should respond accordingly.

"_Arigatou gozaimasu, Wang-san," _he said, rising up from the bow. Kiku let out a squeak and jumped backwards, suddenly confronted with the end of the wooden stick thrust in his face. "Wh-what-,"

"Want to spar?" asked Yao with a grin, hefting the sword over one shoulder. "There's another _bokken_ over there."

"You want to…?" Kiku blinked at the older boy in astonishment, eyes following Yao's finger, which was pointing towards another hardwood sword that was propped against a wall.

"B-but I'm not allowed to-,"

"It's alright, I'm giving you permission, _aru,_" grinned Yao, walking over to where the other sword was leaning and snatching it up, tossing it deftly towards Kiku. The Japanese youth let out a squeak as the _bokken_ flew towards him, managing to wrap his arms around it and catch it before it hit the ground.

"W-wang-san!" He stammered. "Th-that is not proper-,"

"You really are a stick in a mud, aren't you," muttered Yao with a raised eyebrow. "Loosen up. No one's here but us today, right? Come on, maybe you'll learn something. Your _otou-sama _is pampering you too much. You can't expect to take up the mantle of _Wakagashira _if you've never touched a sword before."

Kiku's eyes blinked wide in surprise at the words. What did Wang-san mean by that? It was his right to take up his Father's position as _Wakagashira_. Just because he hadn't touched a sword yet didn't change that fact. Kiku found prickles of irritation beginning to manifest within him. Pretty much from his arrival, this Wang boy had been making challenges at his birthright and his own standing in the family. Kiku didn't get mad easily, but he was tired of the stranger's smug attitude.

Regardless of Wang Yao's own high rank, regardless of the fact that he was older, he had disrespected Honda Kiku several times today.

Kiku adjusted his hold on the sword, wrapping both hands below the hilt. He lowered the hardwood stick slowly into the diagonal position he had seen his Father use before.

Yao blinked at Kiku's sudden serious expression and then laughed.

"You're so cute, _aru!" _he cooed, still laughing. "So serious! You really are the cutest thing!"

Kiku bristled and raised the sword in preparation for a swing. Immediately, Yao's eyes narrowed and he brought his own sword upwards, blocking Kiku's downward slash with ease.

"Tsk. I made you mad, didn't I, _aru?" _commented Yao in a soft, silky voice. "Well then. Let's see what you can do, Kiku-_chan._"

Kiku's eyes flew open in indignation and he pulled his sword out of Yao's block with a shout before swinging at the Chinese boy's side. Yao smirked and blocked again, sliding his _bokken _down instead of blocking it directly. Pulling his blade free, Yao held it up over his head and brought it down in a swift, soundless slash. Kiku's eyes widened and he let out a little gasp at the sight of the wooden sword speeding towards him, his own sword going limp in his grasp. He squeaked and closed his eyes, placing his hands over his head in anticipation of the painful blow that was sure to occur.

Kiku waited a few seconds and then slowly peeked out of one eye, still cringing in preparation of the hit from the _bokken. _

"You can get up, _aru. _I'm not going to hit you, you big baby."

Both of Kiku's eyes flew open at that comment and he stood up immediately, face red with indignation.

"I-I'm not a baby!" he exclaimed, hand tightening around the _bokken, _which he once again raised in front of his face. Again with the insults! If this Wang Yao thought he could-

"Put it down," said Yao dryly with a roll of his eyes. "I've seen everything I need to see. Honestly, _aru._"

"W-what's that supposed to mean?" squeaked Kiku, hands balling up into fists.

"You're extremely inexperienced," said Yao with a shrug, leaving his own _bokken_ loose at his side. "You have had absolutely no training whatsoever."

"I-I know that," stammered Kiku, trying to ignore the burning flush in his cheeks. "I-I'm only seven! My training will start later."

"No," said Yao abruptly, eyes narrowed and dark. "That is foolish. 'Later' is an unacceptable date. Your training should start now."

"I'm too young," said Kiku in a matter of fact manner, reciting what had been told to him on the one occasion he had asked his _otou-sama _a similar question. "I would not be able to handle the con-OW!"

Kiku staggered back, clutching his head and falling to his knees with a pained gasp. He whimpered, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

"Wh-why did you do that?" he whined, looking up at Yao and the _bokken _he held in his raised hand. The Japanese boy immediately balked at the harsh glare his question was met with. Yao had a blank expression on his face but his eyes were narrowed and staring harshly. He appeared to be standing loosely and relaxed but his hands were clenched into fists and his jaw was tightened slightly.

"You, you don't even understand do you?" he asked softly, kneeling down so he was at eye level with the crouching Kiku. "You are _never _too young. That is just an excuse- and a bad one at that. The younger you start the better prepared you are for the future. And Kiku-kun,"

Kiku bristled while Yao just smiled, tilting his head to the side slightly. "The future that is approaching, the one that I wish to bring about- it will devour anyone who is not prepared. No one weak will survive."

Kiku's eyes widened at the statement and he found himself drawing away from the Chinese youth, unnerved by both the boy's statement and the matter-of-fact tone his voice had taken.

"Wh-what are you talking about?" he stammered, "What do you-,"

"The war in Europe ended a few years ago," interrupted Yao, "But another one is sure to start. Have you heard about how Germany was treated, _aru_? Perhaps it was wise to have them defeated so utterly but leaving them to their own devices now is sure to lead to conflict in the future. No people with a shred of self-respect or pride would let themselves be treated as the Germans have been and not strive for retribution." The boy sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, as if seeking guidance from above, before turning it back on Kiku.

"You don't even know what I'm talking about, do you, _aru?_" he asked, amused. "Hm, perhaps I'll add a history lesson to that sword-fighting lesson…"

"I-I don't understand what you're saying," admitted Kiku with an ashamed blush. "I-I've heard about the war, but I don't get-,"

"This world is too divided, _aru_," interrupted Yao, "It needs a single, strong ruler to govern it. People are too full of folly and wiles to be left to their own devices. Young as I am, I can see that, _aru_." Yao paused, a thoughtful look on his face. "Or, perhaps, it is _because _I am young that I can see it."

The Chinese boy sighed again, closing his eyes and falling back onto his bottom.

"Of course," he continued, crossing his legs and folding his arms into his sleeves, "Building a new world won't be easy, _aru_. It takes time, dedication, skill. Many, many things. It is a very weighty task. That is why I have begun my preparations so young. 'Later' is not an option if I wish to change the world." Yao opened an eye a slit, peering at Kiku with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Kiku-kun," began Yao slowly, opening his other eye. "Will you build a new world with me?"

There was silence in the dojo. Kiku continued to stare at Yao, mind not really processing what had been said, and quickly becoming more confused than ever. Yao stared back at him, eyes half-closed and an impassive look on his face.

The silence stretched on with neither youth speaking. Kiku was quickly becoming uncomfortable and he shifted in his crouched position, his gaze long since having dropped to the floor. The silence was stifling and that coupled with the whirl of questions in his head and the utter confusion that was consuming him was quickly overwhelming the young boy.

"You're confused, _aru,_" said Yao, finally breaking the silence. "That's alright. For now, that's fine. In any case…"

Yao grinned, getting to his feet with a shake of his head. "You are still far too weak, _aru_. Such a child."

"Hey!" exclaimed Kiku in indignation, breaking his own silence and leaping to his feet. Shame quickly coloured his cheeks as he remembered, once again, that Yao was both his elder and his superior. "Uh, I-I mean…"

"Speak your mind, _aru_. I won't bite," said Yao with an amused smirk. Kiku remained silent, gaze centered on the ground. Yao frowned and leaned forward. "I mean it, _aru. _It's not a crime to say what you're feeling. You don't have to worry about status with me, because to be honest, I don't care. Status means nothing unless you have the power and skill to back it up. I'm not treating you with the respect the others do because you have yet to prove yourself. Similarly, you only have rumours to back up your perception of me. Save your demure behaviour for when I have earned it, _aru_."

Kiku clenched his fists, clutching the cloth of his _yukata _tightly.

"Status is very important…" he muttered, "How can you say it means nothing? It means everything."

"_Poppycock_," replied Yao immediately, pouting.

"P-poppy _what?_" asked Kiku, flabbergasted.

"It's an English word," explained Yao, a smug look on his face, "Like the Foreigners speak. Can _you _speak English Kiku?"

Kiku blinked and then swallowed, looking nervous and embarrassed. "N-no," he stammered, blushing.

"Well, neither can I, _aru," _admitted Yao with a laugh. "I'm learning though. I want to go to Hong Kong one day, and I hear that they speak a lot of English there. If I want to be powerful, I have to speak all of the languages of the places I want to rule. I speak Japanese and Mandarin, _aru, _and I'm learning English. I'm going to start on Korean soon. Korea is part of Japan's empire right? I want to learn to speak that language as well."

Yao tilted his head and placed his hand on his chin, an amused, contemplative look on his face. "There's lots that I want to do, _aru," _he mused, "So much."

Kiku stared at the older boy, awe and grudging admiration in his dark eyes. Wang-san just kept getting more and more interesting. As far as Kiku knew, all the men in the Yakuza only spoke Japanese. He knew that a few members knew some Mandarin but he did not know anyone who was fluent in it. And English! Kiku had heard of the foreigners, of the ones from the West who came and muscled in on Japanese business unwelcomed. But he had never met one and he had never heard their sure-to-be-strange language.

"That is...," began Kiku hesitantly. The Japanese youth paused and he swallowed nervously before remembering Yao's previous comment about speaking his mind.

"That is…very impressive Wang-san! I am extremely impressed at that! I too wish to learn other languages!" exclaimed Kiku, practically shouting out his praises as he exercised the right to his own opinion for what felt like the first time.

Yao grinned at the boy's exuberant reaction and gave a little laugh. "Is that so? I'm flattered, _aru. _And please Kiku-kun," Yao smiled and he regarded the younger boy with an almost mischievous look, "Wang-san is far too formal for a kid like me. Call me Yao. Better yet, call me o_nii-chan._"

"_O-onii-chan?_" spluttered Kiku, eyes widening at the smug, self-assured look on Yao's face. "W-wang-san, I don't think-,"

In the midst of Kiku's stuttering, Yao stiffened and a serious look spread across his face. Immediately, he launched himself at Kiku, tackling the younger boy to the ground and covering his mouth with a sleeved hand. Kiku let out a frightened squeak and struggled under the older boy's weight, hitting at Yao's chest futilely.

"Sh!" hushed Yao. "Someone's just come into the house. I think it's your father."

Kiku immediately froze, dark eyes wide and pupils dilated in fear.

_O-otou-sama? H-he's back already? No, it can't be him. He said he wouldn't be back until- _

"Yep," continued Yao, nodding his head at his own statement. "It's definitely Honda-sama, _aru._"

Kiku turned white as a sheet and unconsciously began trembling. If his Father found him in here, in the dojo, where he was forbidden to be…

"You are going to be in a lot of trouble if he catches you here, _aru,_" said Yao with a contemplative look, verbalizing what Kiku was already thinking. "Soooo much trouble."

Kiku's eyes narrowed and as he peered up at the child who was pinning him, he noticed a mischievous, cunning look in the Chinese boy's eyes. Shaking his head rigorously, Kiku freed himself from Yao's smothering hand.

"What are you thinking Wang-san?" hissed Kiku, all previous respect and niceties replaced by annoyance and urgency. "What is it that you want?"

"A little brother, _aru," _purred Yao, reaching up with one hand to flick some hair out of his face. "That's all. A little brother. Call me _Nii-chan, _let me train you and make you stronger. Let me teach you all of the languages I am learning, all of the things of the world that I know, and all of my skills. Be my little brother Kiku, join me in my quest for the world and I will cover for you. Because _Kami-sama _knows, you won't make it to age eight if your Father finds you in here."

Kiku wilted and fear jolted through his body, causing an unpleasant twinge in his stomach and a painful ache in his head. Wang-san was right. He had seen his _otou-sama's _anger before: It was terrifying. Simply horrible. The receiving party almost always ended up with injuries. Bad ones. Would that be Kiku's fate if he were to be discovered here?

"L-let me up!" squealed Kiku writhing wildly. He had to get away, had to get out of here, had to move before his Father discovered him in here…

"No, _aru," _said Yao with a wicked grin,_ "_Not until you agree. I'll hold you here until your father comes. I'll tell him I caught you in here. You'll be in _so much trouble." _

Kiku stared up at Yao in horror, tears filling up in his eyes at the unfairness of the situation.

Would Wang-san really do that? Would he really pin Kiku here until…

One look at the Chinese boy's dark, flinty eyes gave Kiku his answer.

The Japanese youth wilted and he let out a panicked gasp as he heard the voices for the first time, echoing around the previously empty house.

_Oh no…_moaned Kiku internally. _He's here, Otou-sama, he's going to find me, he's going to be mad, oh no…._

The young boy clenched his eyelids shut, fighting back tears, before swallowing and meeting Yao's gaze with wide, resolved eyes.

Wang-san was strange. He was interesting and powerful, but strange. Much of what he said went right over Kiku's head. He didn't understand why the Chinese boy wanted him to be his brother so badly. He didn't understand how a ten-year-old had a high rank in the Yakuza. He didn't understand quite how he had gotten into this situation and he wasn't sure if he really trusted this Wang-san.

But right now Wang-san was his only hope for survival.

Right now, Yao-_niichan_ was his only hope for survival.

"P-please cover for me," stammered Kiku, large brown eyes meeting Yao's small amber-coloured ones. "Please cover for me Yao-_nii_."

Yao's face broke out into a wide grin and he leapt off of the Japanese youth, clapping his hands together excitedly and practically skipping towards the door of the dojo.

"Of course _otouto,_" he purred, twirling in a circle, "Anything, anything. I'm so happy, _aru_! My cute little Kiku-kun. Finally, I finally have someone. Finally."

Kiku sat up slowly, looking with wide eyes as Yao continued talking and laughing to himself, a huge, giddy smile plastered across his face. It seemed as if the world had become a brighter place to the ten-year-old, and every step he took resonated with uncontained joy. Kiku watched the display with rapt attention, confused as to why calling him _nii-chan _had elicited such a reaction from Yao.

Yao skipped to the door, still grinning, smirking, and laughing. As the Chinese youth reached the entrance, he looked over his shoulder, eyes suddenly dark and his happy expression fading.

"I've been alone for a long time, _aru,_" he said, voice somber, "Being a child prodigy has its disadvantages. I need someone, badly. I can't do this myself. Thank you, Kiku. Thank you so much. You won't regret this. I'll be the best, most powerful _Nii-chan_ in the world. Just you wait."

Yao pushed the door open, returning his gaze to the front. As he stepped through he inclined his head to the side slightly, leaving Kiku with one last parting phrase.

"I promise I'll make you more powerful than anyone in your family has ever been before. We'll build a new world together, you and I."

And with that, Yao left the dojo, the swishing sound of his oversized _yukata _fading into the distance.

Kiku sat in silence for a few moments, staring at the open door with a slightly dazed expression. Slowly, the Japanese youth got to his feet, shaking his head as he did. Quickly, Kiku ran through the dojo door, looking fearfully from side to side to make sure that no one was coming down the hallway from either direction. The coast clear, Kiku stepped through and slid the door behind him shut quietly. As he entered the hallway he became more aware of the voices echoing around the house. The Honda residence was never a quiet place; there were always people in it. His Father preferred to keep his affairs close to him, and did not have a 'private' estate separate from his business quarters. As such, whenever his Father was in the house, so were several of his associates, subordinates, partners, and the like. The house was never quiet. Today had been an anomaly.

Kiku let out a sigh, turning and walking down the hallway with quick little footsteps.

Today had been…a day he wished to forget. It had been a bad day. He had disobeyed his Father, something he had never done before. He had met an extremely important, extremely unpredictable individual. And he had agreed to take on the role of younger brother to that individual.

Why had he done that?

_It doesn't matter, _thought Kiku with a shake of his head. _I probably won't meet Wang-san again. Otou-sama is rarely out of the house, and he never lets me interact with his subordinates alone. I don't know why Wang-san was allowed near me today, but it won't happen again. It can't. _

Kiku paused, looking back over his shoulder as if expecting to see Yao's cunning, unusual eyes staring back at him.

…_What have I gotten myself into? _

**/**

**Most of the characterizations of characters in this will be 'dark' characterizations. So Yao is Dark!China. Kiku is also Dark!Japan, but you won't see that side of him for a few chapters.**

**Also, I'm taking some liberties with the structure of the Yakuza. So, um, if you happen to know how the Yakuza _actually _works, don't except this to be completely accurate.**

**Please review! Again, I have eight chapters pre-written. If I get lots of reviews I will update in about a week and a half. If I get a super dismal number, I'll update in 3 weeks. **

**Thanks so much to those who reviewed last chapter! I really hope you guys stick around~**

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p**

/

Chapter 3: The deepest holes are the ones you dig for yourself, regardless of your intentions. Good luck to you, Arthur. And to everyone around you.


	3. And the Only Solution

_Chapter 3_

_"And the only solution **was to stand and fight****."**_

_**-**_Only if for a Night, **Florence + the Machine**

**London, England –January, 2011**

There was an aura of mystery surrounding Arthur Kirkland.

The man was an anomaly. Nobody knew much about him other than that he had appeared practically out of nowhere a few years ago and taken the business world by storm. A charming young man with a pleasant demeanor and an old-fashioned, gentleman like quality to him that had most of London's women talking. He wasn't particularly handsome, but you couldn't say he was ugly. While his eyebrows might have been in need of some tweezing the mossy green eyes that lay underneath them were, so the women said, _dazzling. _

And it wasn't just the women who were talking. Arthur Kirkland was the topic of discussion for most of the rich businessmen in England. A young man, a boy really, who had come from practically out of nowhere to restart the infamous Kirkland business, once the most powerful corporation in all of Great Britain. In it's glory days during World War 2 and the times after, the Kirkland company had had a hand in every major business in Western Europe and with influence bleeding into the East. The company had begun experiencing trouble in the eighties and had dwindled out of existence by the mid 90s.

But now, fifteen years later, the Kirklands had bounced back, getting back on the market, re-buying shares and businesses, andeliminating competition with frightening speed. It was, without a doubt, Arthur's doing. He was a skilled businessman despite not looking not a day over twenty-five.

The man was a mystery, to be sure. Where he got the money and influence to restart the extinguished company was a major topic of discussion. The boy had no parents, they apparently having been killed in some accident a long time ago. His only 'family' appeared to be the secretary that he kept by his side at all times. And thus came the question of where the money came from. His parents clearly hadn't been major figures in the public eye as their deaths hadn't caused a stir. In fact, next to nothing was known about Kirkland's parents, or his past.

It was assumed that Arthur Kirkland was, of course, related to the original Kirklands. However, the Kirkland family had been shrouded in mystery since the 1940s. The head of the company, from the time after World War 2 onwards, had never revealed themselves to the public. 'Mr. Kirkland' had been the name of every leader of the Kirkland Corporation for the past six decades. Arthur was the first time the public had been able to put a name to the face in almost seventy years.

So of course, everyone was _very _interested in him.

But while Arthur was not a total recluse like his predecessors, he didn't go out much. He didn't walk down the street, or go out shopping, or hold press conferences, or charity balls, and attended an event or business dance once in a blue moon. Just enough to let the public know he was still alive but not enough to let them know very much about him.

So, of course, the rumours about him swirled around mercilessly.

Who were his parents? How had he achieved such a high-ranking position so young? Where had he come from? Where was he _going? _

Arthur Kirkland was a man shrouded in mystery; that was what most people would say.

If you asked a certain Heracles Karpusi about Arthur Kirkland, his opinion wouldn't be quite so cut and dry, however.

Heracles himself was a rather complex individual. He spent vast amounts of time sleeping and the rest of the time thinking about philosophical ideas. In fact, that was why he slept too much. To give his brain a rest.

The Greek man had moved to London some indeterminable time ago and taken up residence in a small library by the mess that was the Thames River. While the library looked like it was some run-down historical site that no one visited, it was actually fully functioning with books that you could take out and were expected to return with. Heracles had found it by accident one day and had run into a man leaving. Apparently, the man was the current librarian and was leaving for a more…lively job elsewhere. With no one to take up the position, it was likely that the old place would be closed down.

Heracles, ever the sentiment over things that were old, had moved in and become the librarian, taking up permanent residence behind the desk.

This particular library had the uncanny ability to remain unchanging. The faded red brick and stone walkways with an ancient chimney rising from the back were the exact same as they had been when the building had been built, some time in the 1800s. Time and trials had not touched the ancient stone and it looked to not have changed in appearance in the slightest.

Inside as well, little had changed. There was still the single desk at the front. The rows upon rows of books in identical cases stretching across the room. The little library was often overlooked, being so old and old-fashioned, and did not have the money to order new books or to replace ruined ones. Thus, the books too were the same as they had been decades ago.

Yes, the little library was for the most part unchanging.

As such, Heracles's job as its librarian was rather uneventful, and he spent his days reading, sleeping, and pondering.

One of the things that he pondered was an individual by the name of Arthur Kirkland.

Heracles's reason for thinking about Arthur Kirkland wasn't as narrow-minded and shallow as the rest of England's, however.

It just so happened that Arthur was his library's most frequent visitor.

/

"Is this new?" asked Arthur, waving a small, leather-bound brown book in the air with an eyebrow raised questioningly.

At the question, Heracles looked up from the small novel he was reading. He stared at the aloft book for a few moments before shaking his head. "No, nothing new is ever on the shelves," he stated bluntly, returning his gaze to his own book, "You know that."

Arthur shrugged, leaning against a wall and flipping through the pages deftly. "I thought I knew every book in this library," he mused aloud, eyes flickering across the text, "Must have missed this one." The Englishman closed the book and tucked it under his arm, walking over to another bookcase to peruse its occupants. Heracles watched him carefully, his lazily hooded eyes trailing the other man's movements.

Arthur had been frequenting the library for years now and like the building itself, he seemed to remain unchanged by time. Same sandy blonde hair, neatly brushed down. Same mossy green eyes, hooded beneath massive eyebrows. And the same perpetually pensive expression; like he was always pondering some troubling question.

The man looked about twenty-five, but sense dictated he had to be much older. You didn't rise through the business world at the speed of light when you were twenty-five.

Heracles knew he was older.

_Much _older.

"Say, Heracles," began Arthur, turning to once again face the librarian. Heracles blinked slowly before turning his attention away from his inner musings and once again focusing on the present and the man in front of him.

"Do you," continued Arthur, walking forwards towards the desk, "Happen to have any…light-hearted books?" The Greek man tilted his head slightly, giving a confused look to the man currently leaning on his desk with a triumphant smirk on his face. Arthur usually asked for more somber novels, or books on magic and witchcraft. Something 'lighthearted' wasn't usually his preferred reading choice.

"Wouldn't you know?" asked Heracles, inclining his head to the side, "Don't you know most of the books in the library?"

Arthur's eyebrows scrunched together, and his typical pensive expression chased away the foreign smirk that had graced his features moments earlier. "True," he admitted, shifting slightly on his feet, "But I don't usually look at those sorts of books you know, so I'm not entirely familiar with them." Arthur once again flashed the smirk at Heracles who was becoming more and more curious for the cause of it.

"You seem to be in a good mood," commented the librarian as he slowly stood up from the desk, walking around to begin making his way towards a bookcase near the back of the room.

"Do I?" mused Arthur, the smirk not leaving his face, "Well, I suppose you can say that I am. Things have been going rather well lately, you see."

"I've been following," replied Heracles, perusing the bookcase sleepily and stifling a yawn. "You bought out a foreign business somewhere, did you not?"

"I did," admitted Arthur triumphantly, his smirk widening and his eyes lighting in up with unbridled glee, "In Russia. I bought out a business in Russia."

Heracles looked up from looking over the bookcase, turning to stare at the Englishman.

The phrase that Arthur had just uttered had seemed a lot more loaded and with a lot more history to it than one would assume. His buying out something in Russia seemed to have caused an inner triumph of sorts. Almost as if a secret profit, other than the one that had been made public, was being made.

"Congratulations," said Heracles after awhile, turning back to the bookcase, "It must be nice for you to be on top again. It's been decades now, hasn't it?"

Arthur stiffened and his smirk once again fell to his pensive expression, eyes narrowing. "Nice for my family," said Arthur bluntly, "It's nice for my family to be on top…of the business world again. Of the business world. And yes, looking back on historical records we can surmise that it has indeed been decades."

The Englishman looked away with an irritated look on his face, a large scowl twisting his mouth downwards.

Heracles didn't comment on Arthur's odd response to his innocent question, merely running his finger along the books in the bookcase before straightening and moving on to another.

"Yes, you've dominated England and are heavily influencing Western Europe," continued Heracles, eyes still focused on the books in front of him, "And you've bought out a company in Russia, signifying a push into Eastern Europe as well. But," The Greek's eyes flickered over to the Englishman, before once again settling on his books.

"If you're not careful, you'll start trouble with East Asia."

Arthur's eyes widened, before an angry look fell on his face and his hands clenched into fists, book falling onto the desk.

"You-," he growled, taking a step forward, "How much do you-,"

"Here we are," interrupted Heracles, seemingly oblivious to Arthur's comment and anger. "A 'light-hearted' book." The librarian pulled it off the shelf, humming quietly to himself as he brought it over to the desk and set it in front of Arthur with a smile. The Englishman looked at him warily before slowly turning towards the book and flipping it open deftly, scanning the contents of the first page briefly.

"Thanks," said Arthur tersely, picking up the book and tucking it under his arm, "I'll return it in a week."

"There's no hurry, take your time," said Heracles with a yawn, waving his hand lazily though the air. "I'm sure you'll be very busy in the future anyways."

Arthur gave Heracles a hard look, before turning on his heel and walking towards the door. He gave the Greek librarian one last questioning look over his shoulder, before disappearing through the entranceway and out into the drizzly London morning.

Heracles moved around to the other side of the desk, sinking down into his chair with a sigh. He settled back in his seat, closing his eyes and getting comfortable in the leather chair.

Yes, Heracles Karpusi thought about and pondered over Arthur Kirkland a lot. And yes, the Englishman made him curious.

But that didn't mean that Heracles wasn't already very informed.

_It begins again…_he mused inwardly, _is everyone watching? The next round has begun and it looks to be more explosive than ever. _

/

Arthur thrummed his fingers along the cover of his new book, staring out of the car window with his typical pensive expression, brow creased and chin resting on his fist.

"_If you're not careful, you'll start trouble with East Asia."_

Arthur grimaced and quickly turned away from the window, looking down at the book on his lap and flipping it open roughly. He stared intensely at the faded black letters, finding it hard to concentrate with his thoughts a humming mess inside of his head and with a thrum of anxiousness and anticipation beginning to stir in his chest.

_Trouble with East Asia…._

Arthur slammed the book shut with an irritated noise, once again turning his attention to the window.

As usual, it was raining. Not too hard, simply a light drizzle that was keeping the streets just slick enough to warrant driving slow and to travel with an umbrella. The sky was not too overcast, and the day was fairly bright, the sun shining strongly from behind the thin layer of cloud.

A morning in London was always the same, even after all these years.

Arthur's hand clenched and unclenched, scrunching up the fabric of his pant leg. London was unchanging for the most part, just like him. Additions might be made, things would be stripped away, but the essence would always remain the same.

Stubborn, tenacious, ruthless.

Vengeful.

_Eighty-three years since they started this…_thought Arthur to himself, eyes narrowed, _Eighty-three years since I got involved…Seventy-four years since it all went to hell…And only sixteen years since that bastard took everything. _

Arthur's fingers dug through the cloth of his pant leg and his nails burrowed into the flesh of his hand.

He'd been in hiding, licking his wounds, biding his time, and laying low. He had fallen completely off the radar while that…_damnable _man had stepped straight into the limelight, pulling the carpet right from underneath Arthur's legs, whilst laughing. _Laughing. _

But that was okay. China might have won the battle, but England had won many battles before that, and he would be the one to win the war.

And it would all end where their deadly game had truly begun.

Russia.

Arthur was jolted out of his thoughts as the car jolted upwards, signifying the lift up the curb to drive the steep incline of the driveway. The young man blinked a few times before running a hand through his hair and closing his eyes with a sigh, letting his head thud back against the seat.

His world was an impossibly complicated place, and everything he did had a direct cause and a direct consequence he was anticipating. With this new investment in Russia he would have to be very careful with every move he made. Buying out the company had pretty much been sending a direct challenge to China, and the man was sure to have seen it. He'd lit the fuse to start the war again after the sixteen-year respite, and he had to be prepared to fight hard to make sure he won, once and for all.

With or without his army.

Arthur's driver opened the car door for him, and the young man stepped out, flashing the driver a brief look of irritation at not having had an umbrella ready. _(_It _was _raining and as an aristocrat Arthur was entitled to those sorts of things.)

Somewhat put-out, Arthur walked up the walkway connecting the driveway to the front door, shaking his head to rid his hair of the gathering drops of water.

Now he was in _quite _the mood. He hated getting his head wet. His hair was a punk-ish mess on the best of days, which did not suit his image at all, and adding moisture to it just made it a hundred times worse.

_At least I don't have anywhere to go today. None of those foolish charity balls, or galas, or the like. Bloody hell, I miss when 'Mr. Kirkland' was a recluse and didn't have to show his dazzling smile to get business deals. Who knew the easiest way to get a man to secure a deal was to seduce his wife? _

A smirk danced across Arthur's lips at those thoughts, and he shook his head at the foolishness of men, particularly rich men.

As he reached the end of the walkway the door swung open, and a young maid gave him a quiet nod as she stood ready with a small white towel.

Arthur stepped into the mansion, irritation flashing across his face as he saw the towel.

_Really, why the towel when the bloody driver could have just brought a sodding umbrella? _

"Good morning, Mr. Kirkland," greeted the maid with a curtsy, not meeting Arthur's eyes as he took the towel and roughly ran it over his damp hair. The young man made a nondescript noise in response before wiping his shoes on the mat and continuing into the house.

_Futile as it may seem, I suppose the first thing to do is try and contact everyone, _thought Arthur somewhat grimly, his mouth in a thin line as he walked down the hallway towards his study. _I'm sure I can find Hong Kong with ease, so I can contact him last. Seychelles will be harder, but I'm sure she- _

"Arthuuur!"

…_And Australia's already here. _

The door to Arthur's study banged open and a rolling chair flew out of it, banging into the opposing wall and causing several of the pictures to rattle precariously. Sitting in the chair with his chest pressed against the back and his long legs dangling over the sides was a wild-looking man with a foolish grin on his face, appearing to be about the same age as Arthur.

"Arthur!" exclaimed the man jubilantly, waving enthusiastically while pushing the chair down the hallway with his legs. "G'day coz! It's been awhile, eh? 'ow ya been?"

Arthur's eyebrows twitched in irritation at the excessive volume the other man chose to use as well as the disturbing scratching sound coming from the chair as it rolled across the hardwood floor, foreshadowing the gouges he was sure to find if he were to look there.

Arthur forced his gaze up from his soon to be ruined floor and looked at the man who had appeared in his house unannounced.

Joey Sanders was about as rugged looking and wild as a man could get, minus a foot-long beard. He was tall and gangly-limbed but with well-defined muscles rippling across his chest, arms, and legs. His hair was a dark brown mop on his head, flopping into his face a bit and with a single piece sticking straight up. He had the aura of a man well-traveled and one well versed in the ways of life-threatening situations. While his dark eyes shimmered with mirth they also held an undercurrent of intimidation and danger.

"Sorry for arrivin' unannounced," he apologized, grinning and not looking sorry at all, "Y'know 'ow it is. Sometimes ya don't really plan-,"

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

"Joey," said Arthur sternly, folding his arms across his chest and placing a hand on his forehead. "Get off the chair."

The wild grin faded from the Australian's face and was replaced with a somewhat sheepish, nervous look. The man chuckled nervously as he swung his legs over the chair and got off of it, running a hand through his dark brown locks before sticking his hands into the pockets of his faded jeans.

"Oi mate, you're not mad are ya? I was just having a little fun with that lovely rollin'-,"

"How the _hell _did you get into my house?" interrupted Arthur, glaring at Joey through the fingers of his hand. The Australian froze before giving a short little laugh and sauntering up to Arthur, slinging an arm across his shoulder friendlily.

"Why, that adorable little Sheila you have for a maid let me in! Adorable gal she is, I 'ope you're payin' her a fortune, Arthur. That smile alone-,"

"Joey," groaned Arthur, shrugging out of the other man's grip and massaging his aching temples with his fingers. His cousin had the undesirable trait of being a motor-mouth. His thoughts seemed to go a mile a minute, and his mouth always aimed to keep up.

"Ehehe, sorry mate," apologized Joey, standing back and leaning against the wall, flashing a quick grin at the short-tempered blonde man. Arthur withdrew his hand from his forehead, closing his eyes and sighing deeply before slowly opening them again.

Joey's smile had gone. In its place was an actual serious look, dark brown eyes searching and pensive with his entire body stance tense. Arthur's gaze hardened and he met Joey's evenly.

"So," said the Australian, the joking tone gone from his voice, "Russia."

"Aye," replied Arthur with the tiniest of smirks playing about his lips, "It's time."

Joey stared at Arthur for a few more moments, expression unreadable, before he turned his gaze to the floor with a sigh, removing his hands from his pocket to place them behind his head.

"Crikey," said the man with a humourless laugh, "I'll never understand what's so great about the place that it's got you and China always at each other's throats over it. Russia. It's always Russia." Joey shook his head ruefully, standing up off of the wall to begin pacing the floor in front of the Englishman.

"Shit, are you sure about this Arthur? It got really bad last time, really bad, and it will only get worse this time around," asked Joey, turning his dark gaze towards the young man in front of him with concern etched onto his features.

"What do you mean am I sure?" replied Arthur, eyes narrowed and an irritated expression on his face. "Are you suggesting that I just leave things as is? With China ruling over all of Asia and East Europe and with a hand in all of my past business ventures? With him having won the last round and rubbed my face in it by becoming the spokesperson for big business and prosperity? Just let him parade around like a bloody prostitute with a new studded bra after he took everything from me?" Arthur was yelling now, his hands clenched into fists and his eyes smouldering, utter fury all over his face.

"That analogy was ridiculous," commented Joey bluntly, staring at the younger man impassively with his hands once again tucked into his pockets and an almost bored expression on his face.

"That aside, you're scaring the girls, mate," he whispered after a moment, inclining his head towards two frightened maids crouching in the doorway of a nearby room, "And trust me, I know all about what that bloke did. I was there, remember? And don't forget, you're my coz. We're legit blood relations so it's pretty personal for me, too."

Arthur unclenched his fists and stood down slightly. He turned his head away, eyes still burning with hidden anger. "I know," he whispered harshly, fury still notable in his voice, "I know."

Joey watched his cousin carefully; relaxing as he saw Arthur's tenseness fade and the anger begin to seep from his body.

"Good," said the Australian, walking towards his cousin with the smallest of smiles, "I'd hate to think you were considering yourself alone in this little crusade after all of the years. I mean, crikey! How long has it actually been?"

Arthur paused a moment, looking grim as he considered the number of years their war had been going on. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head ruefully. "Long," he said, running a hand through his hair as the last vestiges of rage faded. "Very, very long."

"And it begins anew!" chuckled Joey, spreading his arms wide. "So Arthur, where do we go from here? I flew all the way up from Down Under because I knew you wouldn't go pulling a stunt like movin' into Russia without bringin' in all the big guns. Will the whole gang be comin' up? Are we _really _going to go at it again?" Joey's question was accented with a mischievous smirk, and a roguish glint in his eye. His tense stance had melted into an agitated one, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, rocking back and forth on his heels, his entire body thrumming with excitement.

Arthur hesitated for a moment before allowing himself a small smirk at his cousin's excitement, feeling the same type of giddy feeling rising in his own chest.

"Yes, we're _going at it, _as you say, once more. Sixteen years is a bit long to sit cooling our heels, is it not? I'm sure you've been dreadfully bored wrestling crocodiles and the like," teased Arthur, grinning uncharacteristically. Joey threw back his head and laughed at the comment, leaning over and ruffling Arthur's hair.

"You bet, mate! Nothin' compares to tusslin' with that Viet Sheila. Let me tell you, it's thinking about going hand to hand with her again that gets m'blood boiling. What a fighter!" reminisced Joey, looking upwards with a faraway, yet murderous look in his eyes.

"Indeed," agreed Arthur, the smile still on his lips, but his eyes narrowed and angry-looking, also staring off into some long-gone memory.

Joey brought his gaze back down, the murderous light still flickering in his eyes' dark depths. "…Am I the only one?" he asked, his tone still light-hearted, but his posture tense once more and his eyes hooded.

"The…the _first _one," corrected Arthur, leaning back against the wall with his arms folded across his chest and his gaze averted, "I was about to begin contacting Seychelles. Hong Kong will be easy to find, he's still in England."

Joey didn't reply for a few seconds, his expression flickering and his mouth twitching as if he really wanted to say something. Finally, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"And Ma-Canada?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

Arthur's entire body stiffened, and his eyes narrowed sharply, before closing with a sigh.

"Canada…is….wherever Canada is."

"Y'still don't know where 'e is?" stated Joey, surprised.

Arthur snorted, turning his head away in a huff. "That question was worded in an improper manner. I couldn't tell you _where he is at this exact moment. _But if I wished to, I could find him."

Joey looked at his cousin warily, before huffing out a sigh and scuffing the ground with his shoe. "I hope you're tellin' the truth, mate," he said scratching his head with a hand, "'Cause let me tell you, I ain't goin' into no scuffle without knowin' that Canada's somewhere in the rafters, shooting at the enemy with one eye closed and his hands behind his back."

Arthur's eyebrow quirked upwards at the description and he huffed, turning to the side. "That's an exaggeration Joey. And don't worry, Canada will be here. _Everyone _will be." The Englishman's eyes narrowed slightly as he recalled just who _everyone _was.

There was himself of course. Arthur Kirkland, alias, England. The head of their small organization and the one who had brought them all together in the first place. His cousin, Joey Sanders, alias, Australia. The man who had been with him right from the beginning, pushing aside his loyalty to his own Father to help Arthur. Then there were Maddox and Angelique. The two youngsters that they had picked up along the way. Angelique had saved Arthur's life way back when he had first taken control of his Father's company, and he had felt indebted to her and taken her off the streets she was working. She had proven herself quite the resourceful fighter and spy and had officially joined the elite of the organization quite quickly. Then there was Maddox. The circumstances behind the teenager joining Arthur's family were complicated and rather rocky. But the Chinese boy held no loyalty towards his former Big Brother and, if nothing else, was willing to follow Arthur if it meant getting back at the man who had abandoned him.

Then, there was Canada, Matthew Kirkland. His adopted little brother. Arthur had met Matthew when he was eight, and the other boy was only six or so. It had been quite the shock at the time. When his Father had left for America, Arthur had expected him to return with toys and treats, not two new-

Arthur stopped his train of thought, a painful twinge going through his chest as his memory conjured up the image of a young blonde teenager with big blue eyes and a wide, all encompassing smile.

_Whatever else, Artie. I'll always be your little brother, and I'll always be here for you! _

"Arthur? Y'all right, mate?"

Arthur snapped his head to the side, eyes immediately narrowing and his eyebrows knitting together in their standard pensive expression.

"Of course I'm alright," he snapped before forcing a smirk onto his face. "I'm about to stick it to China once and for all. Why wouldn't I be alright?"

Joey looked at him doubtfully, a somewhat apologetic expression on his face. "My bad, mate," he said in a soft tone, "You just had your 'I'm thinking about Alfred right now' face on so…-,"

**WHAM. **

The hanging paintings shook, and the maid in another room let out frightened squeaks as the wall trembled and quaked.

Joey's expression hadn't wavered as he'd seen Arthur's fist speeding towards him, nor had it wavered when the man punched the wall beside his face, and he maintained his impassive expression, even as a trembling picture finally gave way and fell atop of his head.

"Now, now, Arthur," said the Australian somewhat admonishingly. "Was there really any reason to go and punch the wall like that? I think you cracked the plaster. And you were in a tiff about me leaving a few scratches on the floor…"

"Don't…" began Arthur, teeth gritted and hands clenched into fists. "Don't say his name….you know that…don't say it…just don't…"

Arthur withdrew his hand, leaving behind a smear of blood on the plaster and torn skin across his knuckles. The young man frowned at the sight and watched gloomily as the blood flew off the wall to return to his hand, the skin stitching itself back together and the wounds healing completely in a matter of seconds.

"Too bad the wall can't do that. It'll be a bitch to fix," commented Joey dryly, moving away from the wall and staring at the plaster ruefully. The Australian then turned back to his cousin, looking a little sorry, but mostly contemplative. "You alright now, coz? If I recall, we have some calls to make. People who are in our family _now._"

Arthur flexed his fingers experimentally before nodding, a smouldering light in his eyes. "Aye," said the Englishman, his voice flinty and determined. "Let us concentrate on the present, and the future."

Joey stared intensely at his cousin, a guarded look in his eyes. "Arthur," he began slowly, "Are you sure that the others…contacting them is one thing, but convincing them to fight again…we didn't all part on the best of terms-,"

"That's inconsequential!" snapped Arthur, his hands clenched into fists and his face both angry and pained. "W-we…we are a family. We fight sometimes, but we always come through for each other in the end. And that's all there is to it."

Joey didn't reply, the Australian staring at the younger man with his lips pressed into a thin line. Finally, after a few tense minutes, he sighed and sagged against the wall again. "So it's time? We start making calls and get this shindig underway?"

Arthur's eyes hardened and he nodded, smirking slightly at his cousin as he did.

"Our time is now."

**Sherlock, England- January 2011 **

"Do you think spring's coming?"

Xiang blinked, slowly turning his gaze towards the young girl beside him. She was staring up at him with large green eyes and an innocent expression on her face. The teenage boy stared at her for a few moments, not immediately registering her question, before shrugging.

"It's still only January," he said dully, adjusting his hold on the umbrella that was shielding them both. "The rain doesn't, like, mean anything."

"But it's rather warm out," protested Heidi, pulling on the thin jacket that she had chosen that morning instead of her heavy winter one. "And it would be nice if spring started early."

"It would be nice," agreed Xiang, peering out at the gray England sky. "But spring doesn't start in January," the boy paused before adding, as an afterthought: "At least, not in England."

Heidi's eyes widened and her hand reached up to tug on the boy's sleeve.

"Xiang," she said, eyes wide and inquiring, "You've been to places other than England, right?"

Xiang's eyes flickered towards the young girl. His impassive expression remained the same, but his body tensed slightly. "Hn," he grunted, nodding slightly in response to the question whilst angling his head to side. He felt Heidi's grip tighten on his sleeve and sighed inwardly. Clearly, Heidi's interest was piqued, and that meant she would be persistent in pursuing an answer from him. A sense of dread settled on the Chinese boy as he resigned himself to become subject to Heidi's questions until her curiosity was satisfied. The thirteen-year-old could be quite stubborn when she wanted to be and had an insatiable desire to know as much about Xiang as possible.

Xiang tensed further, turning his head completely away from his foster sister and his grip on the umbrella tightening.

If there was one truly troubling thing about his current situation it was Heidi 's need to know everything about his past. The standard 'I don't remember anything before Foster Care' did not work with the little girl, or her brother. In fact, The Zwinglis were the first family that ever knew that Xiang had been outside of England. And in addition to that, Heidi had somehow managed to get him to reveal that he had had two older brothers that he had lived with at separate times, neither of which he had gotten along with.

While the amount of information that the siblings had was so vague and un-detailed that it's revelation was not _that _troublesome a matter, it was the principle that bothered Xiang.

Never in his long, long, life, had he ever given out information that he hadn't wanted to. He had been subjected to torture, mental and physical, of the worst kind, and he had never broken, not once. Ever.

And yet, Heidi 's persistence, and her sweet face, had revealed chinks that Xiang hadn't known his previously impenetrable armour had. It was disconcerting. Worrisome. It seemed the year that he had spent with the Zwinglis had sanded off some of his hard-earned edges.

He was going soft.

Xiang shifted his position slightly, eyes flickering towards the girl standing beside him.

Heidi and Vash…they were…nice people. Yes. They were nice people. That in itself was enough of a surprise to take some of the edge off of the Chinese boy. This wasn't his first run through the foster system, and never before had he found a family so tolerant of a teenage boy. A particularly apathetic teenage boy. When he had first arrived with the pair he hadn't expected much. Heidi, if the small profile that the caretakers had given him at the home was to be considered, was perhaps the perfect little girl. Perfect grades, pleasant demeanor and apparently did everything her brother said. Vash was a bit rougher. A police officer, strict, no nonsense, somewhat freakishly devoted to his sister. The two of them seemed to be the perfect family unit, and Xiang doubted his intrusion would last long.

He had given himself a month, tops. They had seemed like they would be stubborn enough to try and _force _the arrangement to work. For a while at least.

But it had lasted longer than a month. Vash was strangely tolerant of Xiang's indifference and monotone one-word sentences while Heidi seemed to find delight in trying to get him to talk or get him to play games with her.

His normal defense, apathy, did not work.

And soon he had found himself getting progressively more integrated into the family. Helping Heidi with her homework, going with Vash on patrol some nights. Attending holidays and celebrations with them and meeting Heidi after school to wait for Vash to pick them up together.

Like he was actually part of the family.

And it had been continuing over the past year. This…integration. His edges were being sanded down. It was scary. He no longer checked all possible exits the moment he entered a room. He no longer ensured that there was _something _nearby that he could use as a weapon. He no longer regarded everyone around him as a potential enemy. He no longer tried to estimate what the most flammable object in the area was and how much it would take to cause it to explode.

Because Heidi said he always looked too serious and should try smiling at people and places instead of dissecting them with his eyes.

He didn't smile, but he stopped dissecting. And thus, stopped assessing, leaving himself wide open to potential attacks.

But a growing part of him didn't care.

And it was all her fault.

Xiang's eyes flickered towards the girl. She was looking out into the distance with a pout, clearly displeased with Xiang's lack of an answer. She wasn't prodding as much as she usually did, probably because her mind was on other things.

Xiang's eyes drifted downwards towards his wrist. He lifted his arm, and the overlong sleeve of his dark brown sweater slid back, revealing a simple watch.

"What time is it?" asked Heidi, moving closer to peer at the other teen's watch.

"It's, like, almost four," answered Xiang, his standard monotone coloured slightly by the casual way he spoke. "He's late."

Heidi's pout became more pronounced and she sighed, leaning her head against Xiang's shoulder wearily. The Chinese boy stiffened for a brief moment before relaxing and adjusting the umbrella to ensure that it covered both of them. He stared upwards in silence, listening to the soft pattering of the rain against the sidewalk and the umbrella. After a moment he turned his gaze back down towards Heidi, and he felt his apathetic gaze soften as he saw her with her eyes closed, dozing softly against her adoptive big brother.

_You infuriate me…I don't understand it…_thought Xiang, struggling against the conflicting feelings curdling in his chest and clenching his fists. _What have you done to me? I shouldn't be…_

Xiang raised his free hand, ghosting it slightly over Heidi's forehead, brushing back her straw-coloured bangs with a gentleness he shouldn't have possessed.

_You've ruined me. In just a short year, you've ruined me. _

_**BEEP! **_

Both teens jumped at the sound of a loud car horn beeping obnoxiously. Heidi jolted upwards with a start, rubbing her eyes and peering out from under the umbrella in a daze. Xiang shook his head slightly, tilting back the umbrella to get a better view of what was in front of him.

Oh.

Vash's police cruiser sat in front of them, close to the curb with the blonde staring at them through the window on the driver's side. Xiang hastily dropped the hand that was still hanging in the air, nudging the still dazed Heidi slightly.

"Vash is here," he said gently, gesturing towards the car with his head. The young girl blinked before smiling widely and rushing out from underneath the umbrella towards the car.

"Brüder!" she called happily, her Germanic accent more prominent as she exclaimed, leaning down to kiss her brother's cheek as he rolled down the window. "Where were you? I was worried!"

"Sorry I'm late," apologized Vash gruffly, his cheeks taking on a rosy hue. "Get in the car Heidi, I don't want you to be out in the rain any longer. We can talk once you're warm and dry."

Heidi smiled happily and laughed before skipping towards the backseat. Vash watched her, blushing, before turning his gaze back towards Xiang, who was still standing on the sidewalk. Vash raised an eyebrow at the Chinese teenager, who stared blankly at him.

_It's not just Heidi…_thought Xiang, hands tightening once more as he walked towards the car, moving around to pause in front of the backdoor on the opposite side. He lifted his gaze, staring through the window at Vash.

_You're at fault too Vash. Why do you care so much? _

He shook his head slightly as he closed the umbrella, shivering at the sudden onslaught of cold water. He opened the door and slid into the car, dropping the umbrella onto the floor and shedding his backpack before closing the door behind him.

Vash turned his head to cast the boy a curious look from the driver's seat before pressing on the gas pedal and pulling away from the curb.

"Big Brüder," began Heidi, shaking her damp bangs away from her face, "Why were you late?"

Vash tensed in his seat and rubbed the back of his head anxiously.

"Ah…something came up at work. Nothing major. Just a small time robbery at a convenience store, but I got called in anyways. Some staff went home early, so we were short on people."

"Oh no! Someone was robbed!" exclaimed Heidi, distraught. "Mr. Kane owns the convenience store, doesn't he? Is he alright?"

Xiang turned his head towards the window, the conversation between the two siblings dulling to a quiet buzz in his ears.

Sherlock was such a small town. Things like robbery caused a huge stir, whereas a natural death caused the whole community to come out in droves to offer their condolences to the family and to mourn together in the street.

There hadn't been a murder here yet.

Xiang flexed his hands, staring down at them pensively.

_And yet, here I sit, a murderer, in the back of the police chief's car. _

Xiang blinked, and his mouth quirked upwards, almost into a smile.

_Irony in its purest form. _

"-your day? Xiang? Xiang, are you listening?"

The Chinese boy blinked and slowly turned his head away from the window, looking into the rearview mirror to meet Vash's intense gaze.

"Sorry?" asked Xiang, tilting his head to the side and pushing his thoughts away to pay attention to his surroundings.

"I asked," said Vash with a slight huff, dropping his gaze to once again focus on the slick roads in front of him. "How was your day."

"Oh," responded Xiang dully, shrugging slightly. "It was fine."

"Xiang~," teased Heidi, reaching over to pinch the boy's cheek, "You know that doesn't cut it."

Xiang stared back at the girl blankly and, much to his horror, found himself fighting back a smile. He turned his face away from her abruptly, covering his mouth with his sleeve and with his cheeks rapidly colouring.

_I need to stop this. _

"It really was fine," he repeated, voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. "A very average day. Wet. Rather wet. But we're in England so," he ended his statement with a shrug, averting the gaze's of the other people in the car.

"Better," laughed Heidi, sliding closer to her adoptive brother.

"We'll go easy on you this time," added Vash, once again staring at Xiang through the rearview mirror, "But next time, that weak answer isn't going to cut it."

Xiang blinked and slapped his other hand across his mouth, feeling the beginnings of a short chuckle beginning to build in his throat.

_No, no, no. I draw the line here. I will _not _laugh. _

Much to his relief, Vash turned his gaze downwards and reached over to turn on the radio. Heidi sat back in her seat, kicking her feet slightly and humming happily to herself.

Xiang sighed and fell back against the seat, feeling very drained and yet, strangely giddy.

…_I need to leave. If I include the year I spent in that Foster Home, it's been two years. It's time to move on. I haven't aged. People will start to notice. I need to- _

Xiang's thoughts ended abruptly as the part of his brain that was listening to the surrounding sounds jolted in alarm. His gaze turned sharply towards the radio and he leaned forward, a hand on the driver's seat.

"Turn that up," he commanded, body tense and a sick feeling culminating in his stomach. His gaze flickered towards the policeman and he added: "Please."

Vash snorted before reaching over to turn up the volume, and Xiang fell backwards, clutching the cloth of his pants tightly.

"-are not sure what to make of this. The Kirkland Company has expanded greatly in the last couple of years, but to be pushing so far into the unstable region of Russia has many people talking."

"I think other businesses are feeling threatened. Russia, however messed up the country is, is a very profitable business venture, if you know how to do it right, and to have such a green businessman moving into it…"

"People are most definitely going to feel threatened. Arthur Kirkland might be in for some trouble."

"More on that later. Now, for the weather-,"

Xiang stared ahead blankly, his entire body shaking slightly.

…_into Russia? England is…._

"Brüder, I didn't understand that," pouted Heidi, leaning forward slightly to peer at Vash. "What was that all about?"

"Those foolish businessmen in London," snorted Vash, waving his hand airily, "Nothing for us to be concerned about, don't worry."

'_Arthur Kirkland might be in for some trouble'. _Repeated Xiang in his mind, thoughts whirling and stomach twisting and churning. _Some trouble? He's publicly moving into _Russia. _China will- _

Xiang's eyes opened wide and he bolted upright, clenching his fists so tight that small crescents of blood appeared on the palms of his hands.

"Xiang?" asked Heidi, leaning over to place her hand gently on his arm. "Are you alright? You look a little funny." Xiang barely registered the girl's words. He felt the wounds on his palms heal, the leaking blood retracting back in, and he squeezed harder, feeling the warm liquid once again spill between his fingers.

_He's restarting the war. He's restarting the war. He's restarting the- _

"XIANG!"

The Chinese boy jumped at the loud exclamation from the front seat, and he unclenched his hands, flecks of blood flying off of them as he did.

"Your hands!" exclaimed Heidi in horror, seeing the blood covering her adoptive brother's palms and fingers. "They're bleeding!" Xiang's eyes widened, and he looked down and cursed inwardly, hiding his hands under his armpits.

"It's nothing," he insisted, already feeling the blood pull back from his fingers and the wounds begin to close. "It's nothing, really. I think you saw the…reflective light from outside. My hands are fine."

"There's blood all over your fingers!" repeated Heidi, reaching over to try and tug Xiang's hands out from under his armpits.

"What's wrong?" asked Vash from the frontseat, looking anxiously into the rearview mirror with narrowed eyes. "Xiang? What's the matter with you today? What's going on?"

_Why do you care? _Shouted Xiang inwardly, mind reeling from the radio broadcast and unable to take everything that was going around him. He continued resisting Heidi's attempts to tug out his hands, clenching his eyes shut.

"Heidi, I'm fine," hissed Xiang, gritting his teeth, "See?"

He removed his hands from under his arms, and showed them, palms upwards, to the young girl.

Heidi's expression went from worry, to confusion, to shock, as she took her brother's hands, staring at them closely.

"Wh-wha-?" she stammered, turning Xiang's palms over and spreading his fingers, examining them thoroughly, "I don't understand…"

"It was a trick of the light," said Xiang, relaxing and returning to his usual monotone before tugging his hands away and sitting back calmly. "I'm, like, fine."

Heidi sat back as well, her face creased in a frown and confusion and worry still very evident.

"So, what just happened?" asked Vash, eyebrows furrowed and looking extremely irritated.

"Nothing," answered Xiang quickly, "Heidi thought my hands were bleeding. But they're not. I'm fine. Everything's, like, fine."

"And before?" continued Vash, eyes narrowed, "When you were all freaked out."

Xiang paused and stiffened, something akin to a pout appearing on his face. "I wasn't freaked out," he defended, turning his gaze back towards the window. "I'm fine."

An awkward silence descended on the small car, and relief soared through Xiang as Vash, returned his gaze to the road (albeit, very grudgingly), and Heidi turned towards her own window, looking extremely concerned.

Xiang almost sighed in relief, and he leaned his head against the cool glass, closing his eyes.

_He's restarting the war, _he thought again, much calmer this time. _England is issuing a challenge to China by publicly moving into Russia, and that means he's restarting the war. That means…_

Xiang stiffened slightly, and he opened his eyes a crack, staring at the other two occupants of the car.

…_That means…_

Heidi turned to look at him, still worried, but she smiled brightly as she saw his gaze on her. Vash's eyes flickered towards the backseat, and he gave the boy a quick nod.

…_leaving? _

Xiang's eyes slipped shut again and he curled up on himself, trying to ignore the sudden painful thrumming in his chest.

_I was just thinking about how it was time to leave. This is the perfect time. And it's good that the war is restarting. I've been getting too soft. England will call for me soon, and I- _

Xiang flinched slightly at the jolt of pain that shot through his chest, and he scrunched his eyes shut, trying to ignore all the feelings whizzing through him.

_He'll call for me soon. He'll call for…Maddox. And then, and then Xiang will… _

The Chinese teen opened his eyes slowly, staring up at the ceiling with what could have been an unreadable expression but could also have been one of rippling pain.

…_I won't be Xiang anymore. I'm only Xiang here. I'll be…Maddox. _

Xiang stared upwards, memories and feelings swirling through him and turning his mind into a mess of tumultuous thoughts.

_I'll be…Hong Kong. _

**Shanghai, China- January, 2011 **

Victory could be measured in a number of ways. So could success.

Triumphing over your enemy numerous times, dealing them harsh blows, killing their family, destroying their home and eradicating their business could be considered a series of very decisive victories. And therefore, you could be considered successful for hitting them so critically.

However, was it truly victory, or success, if that enemy kept bouncing back? If no matter what you threw at them they would throw something back at you? If no matter how much you took from them they would use whatever they had left to try and grind you into dust? Was it victory if their spirit wasn't completely crushed?

And how could you know for certain if they were truly crushed? It wasn't enough to simply assume that a certain attack had crippled your enemy beyond recovery. When the person in question was immortal and couldn't die from either wounds or old age the means with which you hurt them had to be a lot more creative and diverse.

More lasting methods included targeting things that weren't directly on your immortal opponent's body. Like cities where they had major investments and factories and important companies that they dealt with. Stealing trading partners, taking over shares, bombing manufacturing plants, slowly bleeding them dry.

Fun stuff like that.

You would assume that after pounding an enemy so relentlessly it would be easy to declare them defeated. That when the last factory fell and they were publicly declared bankrupt, that you could say, once and for all, I win.

But it wasn't that simple.

It was _never _that simple.

So when England and his family disappeared off of the face of the Earth, leaving absolutely no trace that they had ever existed, China hadn't automatically started celebrating.

Because that would have been stupid.

"Tea, Mr. Wang?"

Yao opened one eye slowly, lifting his head a fraction off the red cushion it was resting on. He eyed the small, antique cup sitting on the gold platter and the petite girl who was holding it, kneeling in front of him with her hair in neat twin buns and clad in a traditional serving dress. Her gaze was down as she presented the platter to him, and his eyes passed over her superficially before settling on the tea. He leaned forward slightly, sniffing the liquid experimentally. A slow smile spread across his face and he inhaled deeply, sighing in appreciation.

"Thank you," he purred, reaching out to gently pick the cup of the platter, "That's perfect."

The girl remained in front of him, kneeling with her gaze down and her hands still holding the platter. Yao raised the cup to his lips, before noticing her presence and narrowing his eyes.

"You can go," he said curtly, a bit of irritation leaking into his usually silky and pleasant voice. The girl dipped the top half of her body into a bow before straightening up and hurrying away, opening the door silently and closing it with the same amount of quietness. Yao kept his gaze away, paying her no attention as he continued to eye the antique teacup, turning it slightly as he observed it. When the door closed he sank down into the soft, carefully placed cushions with a sigh, sipping the tea lightly. Yao let out an appreciative noise as the warm liquid touched his tongue, and he sank down deeper, his long traditional robe bunching around him and the overlong sleeves sliding back.

_It's amazing, _he mused, as he took another sip,_ how enriching a well-made cup of tea can be. _

Yao took another drink before carefully placing the teacup on the ground and rolling onto his stomach, curling up on the plush pillows and sinking into the folds of his robes.

Almost in a bored manner he picked up the small cell-phone that sat on a cushion beside his head, holding it upside down with a finger and his thumb and staring at it pensively.

"Come on now, ring," he murmured softly, eyes narrowed. "I've had a feeling lately, that something's going to happen. Ring for me, why don't you?"

The Chinese man continued staring at the small device, eyes narrowed. He lifted his head slightly and reached for the teacup with his free hand, never taking his eyes off of the mobile phone dangling in front of his face.

As he was bringing the cup to his mouth, the screen of the phone lit up.

A soft Chinese melody filled the air and the phone began to vibrate.

Yao grinned and set the teacup back down, rolling over onto his back as he flipped the device open, grin widening as he saw the caller ID.

_Oh? A call from you of all people? _Mused the man, a pleased smirk replacing the grin. _I'm never wrong. Something's happening. Finally. _

Yao pulled the phone to his ear, rolling onto his other side as he did.

"Hello, aru?" he purred in Japanese, fiddling with the tassels on one of the cushions, "And who might this be?"

"..._Yao-san, you know who this is. And please, this is no time for jokes. Something serious has occurred." _

Yao smiled as he heard the familiar voice of his adopted younger brother and right hand man for the past 90 or so years. As usual, the voice was smooth, somewhat clipped, and serious. However, it was more agitated then usual, and Yao could practically _feel _the other man fretting from across the telephone line. He could almost visualize him pacing back and forth, pulling on his shirt in that worrisome manner of his.

_If _he, _of all people, is that agitated…_"What's wrong, aru?" asked Yao, excitement and anticipating whirring underneath his skin. "What's going on?" his voice came out sounding breathless, entire body tense in anticipation.

It had just been _so long _since anything interesting had happened.

"…_Yao-san…it is England…_"

Yao stiffened in his lying down position and he propped himself upwards on his elbows, eyes narrowed and free hand drawing circles on the pillow in front of him.

_Of course it is. I should have known. _

"Oh, aru?" he answered, his voice bright and curious sounding. "And what has he been up to?"

There was a brief pause on the other line, and Yao hummed to himself nonchalantly, nails tearing through the thread of the silk pillows as he pressed harder and harder on the cloth. The man's grip on the phone tightened, but then relaxed, as there was finally an answer from the other side.

"…_You know that he restarted the Kirkland Company. Brought it back from bankruptcy. But they have just been in England. A few places in Western Europe, but nothing serious…He appeared to be trying to keep under the radar. That is why he has not been doing anything. We have not had any trouble-" _

"Kiku-kun," interrupted Yao, his voice flinty as he swung the phone back and forth in front of his face, clenching and unclenching his hand. "Get to the point, _please, _aru."

There was silence on the other end of the phone for a few short moments, before Kiku speedily answered.

"_Hai. My apologies Yao-san. Arthur Kirkland has bought out a company in Russia." _

Silence occurred on both ends of the conversation, Kiku waiting with baited breath for his partner's response, and Yao…

The phone dangled from Yao's hand, his entire body frozen in place from the last sentence.

"…_Yao-san? Yao-san? Are you alright? Yao-san?"_

"…Kiku," murmured Yao, unfreezing and pushing himself upwards into a sitting position, pressing the phone to his ear. "What's with all the formality? I'm hurt, aru. Aren't I…"

The Chinese man smirked again, getting to his feet with a giddy feeling running through his body, a bounce in his step as he began walking the floor of the room.

"…Your big brother, aru? It's _Yao-nii. _Haven't we been over this?"

"…._Yao-san…Yao-nii…are you saying that…" _

"Of course, aru!" purred Yao, stretching and flexing his hand. "The game's begun again, Kiku-kun. This boring world just got better."

_I knew he wasn't done. _Thought Yao inwardly, a morbid smirk on his face as his eyes darkened. _He's like a cockroach. A silly little cockroach. And yet…_

Yao sighed, tilting his head slightly and smiling wearily.

…_That cockroach is the only thing in this world that can keep me amused. It's a good thing neither of us can die, isn't it? We can keep this game going forever. _

Yao snapped the phone shut, abruptly cutting off his conversation with Kiku. He walked a few steps, a serene smile on his face, before stopping in the center of the room and looking up at the ceiling.

_The first move was yours, England. You started the new round, _he thought with a grin.

_Don't disappoint me._

_/_

**Update a day early because I don't know. **

**This chapter was annoying to write, and reading over still made me scowl a bit. I think it's a good chapter for hooking people into the story though. Maybe. What do you guys think? Did this chapter fill your mind with questions and make you super excited for next chapter? **

**By the way, I kind of feel the need to explain myself. The reason I withhold chapters is because it literally takes me 3 weeks- 3 months to write a chapter. I'm super busy with school and the chapters are rather long. So that's why I hold off on updates. I would make updates faster if I had a lot of reviews because I would feel more of a need to and also I would be more inspired and probably write faster. **

**But yeah, that's why update time right now is sitting at every three weeks. :( I'm sorry. I want to update sooner, but I'm terrified of what's going to happen when I catch up to my pre-written chapters! DX (Just finished chapter 11~)**

**Anyhoo, thoughts on this chapter? Also, I changed a date in chapter 1 (already with the plot holes. OTL ).**

**Reviews please!**

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p**

**/**

Chapter 4: Last time you brought me a present it was a pocketwatch. This….is a bit much.


	4. What are we doing here,

_Chapter 4_

_"What are we doing here, **and who are we suppose to be?"**_

**-**These Days, **Chantal Kreviazuk**

**London, England- March, 1922 **

He was waiting.

Arthur stared across the room, eyes narrowed and the slightest of pouts causing his bottom lip to protrude. He was kneeling, clutching the fabric of his trousers with his hands, his entire frame tense and completely still.

Arthur was waiting, and had been waiting for a while now. His legs were stiff and aching, his back hurt from sitting up so straight, and he really had to use the toilet. But despite all that, he wouldn't move. The maid had said that his Father was due to arrive at any moment, and he would be here waiting for him. He would be the first one to greet the man, the first one to give him a firm handshake. Because that's what men did, they gave each other firm handshakes.

And Arthur, almost age nine, was well on his way to becoming a man.

He could do almost everything by himself. He'd been able to tie his shoes since he was four, and dressed himself in the mornings, without the help of his servants. He could do his maths exceptionally well, and could count up past the ten thousands, and do long division. He was usually polite to the maids, unless they did something wrong or stupid, like leave the vegetables on his plate. And he didn't talk back to adults, unless they were mistaken, like they usually were.

But despite this, despite this clear perfection…

His father still wasn't home.

His father was never home.

Arthur bit his lip, narrowing his eyes further and blinking them rapidly, trying to ignore the distinctive stinging and damp feeling along his eyelashes. He quickly raised a hand and dragged it across his face, rubbing away any liquid quickly.

He would not cry. He was eight yeas old, far too grown up to be randomly crying for no good reason. And his Father being too busy with work to spend a single moment of time with him was not a good reason.

Because he wasn't a little kid, not really.

As the minutes ticked by, and Arthur continued to stare at the door, his serious expression began to falter. Slowly, his entire posture relaxed, and he slouched down, body going limp as his gaze fell away from the door and down to the floor. The boy's bottom lip quivered, and he released a small sniffle, rubbing a hand across his eyes once more. He slowly reached up towards his breast-pocket, dipping his hand into it and pulling out a small golden pocket watch. Arthur flicked it open, and stared down at the bold black letters protruding from the white background.

The shorter hand was no longer at the six, like it had been he last time he had checked, and the longer hand was no longer at the eight. Instead, the short hand was at the eight, and the long hand was at the six. That meant that instead of being Six-forty, (was it forty or forty-five? It was forty, right?), it was now Eight-thirty.

So he'd been waiting for…..two hours? Almost. Minus ten minutes.

Two hours….

Arthur's bottom lip continued to tremble, and his sniffles increased as he deposited the watch back into his pocket, raising his gaze once again towards the door.

What if he never came? What if the maid had been wrong and his Father wasn't actually returning today? What if he never returned at all? Everyone was always going on and on about America. What if his Father had decided he liked it there, and just….stayed? It wasn't like…it wasn't like there was particularly anything here…to keep him in England….

Arthur's sniffles got louder, and he once again rubbed his hands furiously across his eyes. His Father was always away; he was never here. And when he was here, all he ever did was ask how Arthur's studies were going. What was he learning? How was he doing? Was he minding his elders?

Yes Father, I'm doing my best. I'm trying to make you proud. Please stay home for more than a few days.

This had been one of the worst ones. He had been away for months! Months! And all the way across the ocean, to America! Kilometers and kilometers and kilometers away…

Arthur's melancholy expression gave way to a more stubborn, angered one, and he clenched his fists, staring at the door angrily.

Well, when his Father got here, he'd show him. He wouldn't do any of the things he normally did. He wouldn't be all demure and happy to see him. And he wouldn't mind anything he-

Arthur's thoughts came to an abrupt halt as he heard commotion from outside to the door. The eight-year-old leapt to his feet immediately, wiping away any lingering water in his eyes. He stared at the door, his previous melancholy and anger disappearing as he heard a familiar gruff baritone from the other side.

_Father's home!_ Thought Arthur excitedly. _He's finally home!_

The boy's excitement grew as he saw a butler rush forward to open the door, and he quickly began smoothing down his hair, straightening his shirt, and trying to press away the wrinkles that had gathered in his pants. Arthur stood tall, his back as straight as he could make it and his chest puffed out. He faltered for a moment, and tapped his head cautiously. Had he gotten any taller in the last few months? Would his Father notice? He was fairly certain he had the beginnings of a moustache, would his Father notice that?

The butler pulled the door open.

A wide grin spread across Arthur's face, and he rushed forward. "Fa-!"

He froze.

His Father stood in the doorway, his ever-faithful aide, James, beside him, looking somewhat disgruntled and tired. But it wasn't just the two of them.

There was a small boy, in his Father's arms. His arms were around the man's neck, his face buried into his chest, and his Father was holding him aloft. As if that wasn't enough, there was another small boy, remarkably similar to the first one, clinging tightly to his Father's free hand, tugging on it to try and pull the man inside.

And his Father…he was smiling. Laughing, looking down at the boy clinging to his hand, and holding the other boy closer.

Arthur could only stare, his mouth hanging open.

"Welcome home, Master Kirkland," greeted the butler with a bow. "How was your trip?" The man's eyes flickered towards the two young boys, but he did not comment, choosing instead to take the bags from James's hands.

"It was fine, thank you," answered Mr. Kirkland good-naturedly. "A bit…eventful, as you can probably guess."

It was then that the man's gaze finally flickered to the middle of the hallway, where Arthur was still standing, stunned.

"Arthur!" exclaimed Mr. Kirkland, seeming surprised. "I didn't see you there! I…" here the man faltered, looking uncharacteristically nervous and uncomfortable. "I have something to tell you…"

Arthur just stared. And stared. His gaze drifted over the boys once more, and they settled on the second boy, the one holding his Father's hand, who was staring back. He narrowed his eyes, placing his hands on his hips and leaning forward with a scowl. "Who are they?" he asked belligerently.

His Father paused, looking a bit anxious and sheepish. Before he could reply however, the second boy released the hand he was holding and stalked forward, hands folding across his chest.

"I'm Alfred," he stated proudly, a thick accent colouring his words. His blue eyes were narrow and challenging as he moved to stand in front of Arthur. "Who're you?"

"What business is it of yours?" snapped Arthur, thrusting his chin out challengingly.

"Arthur!" said Mr. Kirkland sharply, interrupting the two boys and causing the elder to jump. "Have your manners completely vanished in the time I've been away? Since when do we address newcomers to our home in that manner?"

Arthur flinched and directed his gaze to the ground, fighting to banish the scowl from his face. "My apologies Father," he said thickly. He lifted his head and looked towards the 'newcomers', his eyes angry and his entire stance tense and unwelcoming.

"Hello," said the boy heavily, suppressed irritation clear in his tone, "My name is Arthur Kirkland, the young Master of this estate. Might I inquire as to who you might be?" he asked, practically forcing the politeness from between gritted teeth.

The boy on the ground narrowed his eyes, before turning his gaze upwards towards Arthur's Father.

"Mista Kirkland," he said, tugging on the Englishman's coat. "Mista Kirkland, why's he talkin' so strange? 'E's talkin' like a stuffy ol' coot.!"

From beside Mr. Kirkland, James snorted, covering his mouth and turning his head away, his shoulders shaking with mirth. Arthur's cheeks coloured, and his entire body hunched forwards with rage. Mr. Kirkland's face blanched, and he tugged Alfred closer to him, shifting his hold on the other boy, who was still clinging to him tightly.

"Alfred," he said sternly, looking down at the boy with brows furrowed in displeasure.

A sort of grim satisfaction settled on Arthur. Now it appeared that the precious little newcomer would be getting harshly scolded. He hadn't liked the way the two boys had been cuddling so close to his father. Even he, the son, could not get that close to him for long periods of time. The man was always to busy…to surrounded by important business associates and pretty ladies and all manners of important individuals.

A feeling of raw emptiness settled in the pit of Arthur's stomach, and he turned his thoughts away from the depressing direction in which they were heading, turning them instead to gleefully watch the new boy get scolded.

"Now Alfred," continued Arthur's father, "That isn't polite," Mr. Kirkland's tone was gentle. Firm, but not harsh. "Apologize."

Arthur's eyes flew wide in surprise. His jaw dropped, though he closed it quickly as he turned his head away in anger. What in the world? Why was his Father treating this boy so softly? Had Arthur addressed a Young Master of a house in such a manner, he would have been sent to his room without dinner and been confined there until further notice, and given a hit with the belt to boot. But here, these boys, they were…

"Aw, does I have ta?" huffed Alfred, folding his arms across his chest with a pout.

Backtalk! And the atrocious grammar! Arthur's jaw dropped again.

"Yes Alfred, you have to," said Mr. Kirkland, beginning to sound a bit weary. "You might have hurt Arthur's feelings. And it's 'do I have to'. Not does."

Arthur felt a small sense of satisfaction at hearing the younger boy being chastised for his poor wording, but his momentary smile faded as he saw the boy turn to him, a fiery spark in his deep blue eyes.

"Don't forget to introduce yourself properly," added the Englishman. He then grimaced and looked down at the boy latched to his neck. "And introduce Matthew while you're at it. I don't think he's up for it," he muttered, once again shifting the boy in his arms, his face clearly showing the strain of having held him for so long.

Alfred huffed again, but he walked up to Arthur, who looked down at him apprehensively, assessing him with unfriendly eyes.

The boy was clearly younger than him. Much younger, perhaps five or six. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, and his hair was a more golden blonde than Arthur's own straw-coloured locks. An infuriating piece stuck out over the boy's forehead, and Arthur had the strangest desire to reach forward and pull it.

"Hullo," said the boy sullenly, pulling Arthur away from his inner musings, "M'name's Alfred. Alfred Kirkland as a' present. M'brother's name's Mattie…or whasit, Matthew. Matthew Kirkland I's guess. An' we jus' been 'dopted by Mista Kirkland."

Arthur blinked, then stared, and then stared some more. Had he heard correctly? Had this rude little American (as he had finally pinpointed his infuriating accent) really insinuated that his Father had done the heinous deed of adopting said miscreant and his apparent brother? That he had welcomed two Americans into the prestigious Kirkland family?

Without…without even asking Arthur?

Arthur's mouth opened, but no sound came forth. His jaw hung limply, and he turned his gaze up to his Father, a pleading sort of look on his face.

_Please tell me this isn't true. Please tell me this is a joke! _

"Arthur," said Mr. Kirkland, shifting uncomfortably, "Meet your new brothers."

**April, 1922 **

England, Mattie thought, was not so much a country as a place where people gathered simply to be told what to do and to be governed by confusing rules and customs. After being here for over a month, he still couldn't quite grasp which fork to use when and why it was necessary to use a spoon when eating pasta. The amount of rules surrounding eating was astounding.

Of course, Mattie really couldn't complain as at the beginning of the year, there had been times where he had gone days without eating anything at all. The fact that he had food should banish any misgivings he had about the country, regardless of the amount of rules that accompanied each meal.

Of course, it wasn't just the food that had rules.

"Master Matthew," said the maid sternly, pulling the boy towards her, "You've done up your buttons incorrectly again. Honestly, you need to put more of an effort into making yourself look presentable, otherwise you'll embarrass Mr. Kirkland."

Matthew flinched, and his chin sunk down into his collar as the woman began roughly doing up the buttons on his waistcoat.

Clothing, apparently, was very important in England as well. In America, the only issue surrounding clothing was whether or not they would have enough to keep them warm in winter. Or enough to protect their feet from the rough cobblestones. Style, presentation, they had never been an issue.

Here, however, they meant everything.

"And your hair!" tutted the maid, turning Matthew around and roughly pulling a brush through the boy's blonde locks. "Honestly, you've got such beautiful hair, but you must maintain it better! You can't go about looking like a bird could nest on your head."

Matthew didn't respond; slowly bring his arms up to spread his hands over his face, covering his blushing, uncomfortable expression.

"And so frightfully shy," tsked the maid, pulling Matthew's long-ish hair back into a ponytail. "Well, at least you don't get into as much trouble as your brother and don't sulk all the time like Master Arthur. If only you'd speak!"

Matthew hunched forward, still covering his face. He shifted uncomfortably, and he peeked through his fingers, towards the door. Where was his brother? Wasn't he supposed to be here as well? Getting ready for dinner? Why wasn't he here? Why had he left Mattie alone?

A surge of panic went through the young boy and he lowered his hands slightly, the colour draining from his face.

What if something had happened to him? What if Al was hurt? What if Mr. Kirkland had gotten tired of Al constantly misbehaving, and had thrown him out onto the streets? It wouldn't be the first time…

"Master Matthew? Young Master? Sir! Sir! Are you alright?"

Matthew jolted away from the maid, tears running down his cheeks as he made a dash for the door, leather shoes slapping against the hardwood floor.

"Master Matthew! Matthew!"

Matthew pushed against the door, chest heaving as he sobbed. He burst out into the hallway, almost tripping over the ornate carpet in the middle of the passageway. He righted himself quickly and dashed to the left, water streaming from his eyes.

_Al, Al, Al, Where are you? Where'd you go? Why'd you leave me alone? I hate being alone, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it…_

"Matthew!"

Matthew's thoughts came to a abrupt halt as he crashed into something, rebounding off of it and falling onto his bottom with a tiny 'Oof!'. He looked upwards, tears blurring his vision, and sobs wracking his body. The boy curled up, burying his face into his knees and clutching his neatly brushed hair with his hands, not bothering to look at whom he had crashed into.

"Oh dear, not this again."

He recognized that voice. Another maid.

"I'm not sure what brought it on, I was just brushing his hair for dinner…"

His maid. The maid who had been dressing him.

"Well, behaviour like this can't be helped I suppose. It's what happens when one goes parentless for an extended period of time."

Parentless? That's right. He'd never given it too much thought before coming here, but he and Al didn't have parents. They just had each other...that was all they had….all they needed…

_Al, where are you? _

"Would someone go fetch Mr. Kirkland? We can't just leave him like this."

_No, don't call him. I like him, but he scares me. He's so tall, and important, and I don't want to bother him. He's done so much for us already…_

"Does he not respond better to his brother when he's like this? Perhaps someone should fetch Master Alfred."

_Yes, get Al. Please, I need Al. Get Al. I want Al! _

"That may be true, but you try finding Master Alfred when he's disappeared like this. I gather he's off catching flies to release in Master Arthur's room. Honestly, the two of them. They act no better than warring street urchins some days. It's unbecoming."

_I don't care what he's doing right now! I need Al! Please…_

"Wait just a moment. I believe I saw him hiding under the tables in the dining room when I was down there a moment ago. Shall I fetch him?"

_Yes! _

"Please do. We shan't get anywhere otherwise."

Matthew's intense shaking lessened at the certainty that his brother was coming. His sobs quieted to sniffles, and he removed his hands from his hair, wrapping his arms around his legs and hugging them to his chest.

The maid standing behind him sighed, and he could hear her tap her flats against the floor impatiently.

He always felt bad when this happened. Actually, he felt horrible. The Kirkland household was already doing so much for him and his brother, and he was always terrified that he would ruin it. All the rules, all the procedures, there were so many of them! He forgot them a lot, though he tried not to. He forgot the proper way to address guests, and he stuttered and gaped so much that he had given up trying to talk to them at all. The same with the servants. Apparently they were now beneath him, and he wasn't supposed to be too polite. Or something. But they were his elders, so he couldn't back-sass them, or be rude. It was confusing. He had given up trying to talk to them at all. Their scrutinizing gazes made him nervous anyways. It felt like everyone was always watching him. He could understand why, to an extent. He was American, and he wasn't rich. He and Alfred weren't born into the money they found themselves living in, and it felt like people were always assessing them, to see if they deserved it.

And in Mattie's opinion, they, or at least, he, did not deserve it. Since they had gotten here, all they had done was cause trouble for Mr. Kirkland. They were clumsy, and the number of vases that he and Alfred had collectively knocked over surely exceeded 20. Courtesy did not come easily to them, as they were used to being snubbed and mistreated by adults, and tended to reciprocate the feelings (or at least Alfred did). They weren't able to execute things flawlessly, like Arthur was, and they had trouble doing simple things, like tying their shoes, doing up buttons, and knowing what fork to use at dinner.

Mattie felt horribly out of place in the Kirkland household. He felt like he was mooching off an existence he had no right to touch. The overwhelming sense of not belonging ate away at the young boy, and he tended to hole up in his room and curl up on himself whenever he did not have lessons. Or whenever his brother did not drag him out to play.

Yes, that was the one thing, the one ray of sunshine in this whole mess. His big brother, Al. He'd always considered Alfred to be his older brother, though the general consensus at the Kirkland estate was that they were twins. Their features were very similar, the only differences being Matthew's longer, wavier hair, and his unusual eyes. They were the exact same height and build, same shape, identical.

Whatever the evidence, however, Mattie would always consider Al his elder brother, simply because the other boy was always protecting him. From the beginning, Al had always been protecting him. Had always been there for him, had always been the one to go out on a limb and steal food, blankets, clothing. He'd been the one to go out searching when the boys needed a place to stay, the one to drag a limp Mattie though the snow, the one who gave up his own jacket to contribute to the bundle of cloth that made up the blankets that had covered Mattie when he had been ill.

Al had always protected Mattie. He'd been nothing but the boy's saviour since they had first wound up on the streets.

And here, miles (or was it kilometres?) away, in England, living a completely different lifestyle, things hadn't changed. Matthew still depended on Alfred. Without Al brightening up his day, dragging him into games, making forts out of blankets and having pillow fights. Playing pranks on the maids and Arthur and exploring the huge mansion…

Mattie would have been perpetually miserable. Always sad. Unable to deal with the stress of feeling as though he didn't belong.

But with Al there, it was okay. It was always okay. Because his big brother made everything better. As long as he had Alfred…

Which was why he needed him now.

He'd become hopelessly dependent on his sibling. Even here, where food and warmth and shelter were provided for him by Mr. Kirkland, he needed his brother. He was terrified that now that he had everything, warmth, security, food, that something would have to be taken away. And he didn't have anything to lose. Nothing but his brother. His precious, precious, brother.

Matthew sniffed and swallowed thickly, rubbing a hand across his damp eyes.

He needed his Big Brother. He needed Al to tell him it was alright, he needed….

"MATTIIIIIEE!"

Matthew leapt to his feet, whirling around as he heard a familiar voice echoing from behind him.

He smiled through the tears still blurring his vision and raced forwards, pushing past the maid and towards the young boy racing towards him.

Immediately, he felt himself in the crushing embrace of his twin, his face buried in the boy's shoulder as Alfred's strong arms wrapped around him. Matthew squealed as the other boy's enthusiastic hug lifted him off the ground, and he laughed, wrapping his arms around his brother's shoulders. Alfred spun him around once, before setting him down on his feet, staring at his twin with wide, concerned eyes.

"Mattie! Why were yous crying?" he exclaimed, Brooklyn accent still prevalent, despite his steadily improving grammar. "What's wrong! Did someone hurtcha? Did Artie Fartie do somethin'? Listen, don't worry. I got somethin' planned for 'im, so-,"

"It was nothing," said Matthew quietly, "Please don't do anything ta Arthur. I don't want you ta get in trouble again." Unlike Alfred, Matthew's accent was subtle. American, but with the Brooklyn slur more subdued.

Alfred rolled his eyes, before grinning crookedly and slinging an arm across his twin's shoulders.

"Nothin' I do is what he don't deserve," he said matter-of-factly. " 'e's so mean ta us! It ain't fair, Mattie!"

Matthew winced, but had to nod in agreement to his brother's statement.

Arthur wasn't nice to them. In fact, he was downright nasty. Anytime he saw either American he just glared at them, or stuck his tongue out petulantly. If they crossed paths directly in a hallway with no adult around, there was a high probability that the Brit would stick out his foot and trip whichever boy happened to be walking by. He didn't do that often, as they was always some sort of supervision close by, and Alfred had a tendency to jump on Arthur and viciously attack him with his fists and boots if he happened to be the victim of a tripping. Arthur didn't seem to be able to tell the 'twins' apart, so he had grown wary of tripping them both.

Aside from physical harm, Arthur made it no secret how much he did not want Alfred and Matthew there. Arthur made snide comments about how his father had just adopted them to add to his image as a philanthropist and improve his public image, and how he'd abandon them as soon as he was done with them.

The comments hurt, and they made Mattie cry, but it was because of them that he fought so hard to fit into the English society. To figure out which fork to use when, and how to tie a tie, and the proper way to address a lady.

He wanted to stay with Mr. Kirkland; he wanted to stay here, where he and his brother were safe. Where Alfred didn't have to fight to keep them both alive.

"Please don't fight wit' Arthur," whispered Mattie quietly, clutching Alfred's sleeve. "I don't want Mr. Kirkland ta get mad,"

Alfred rolled his eyes and gave Matthew a crooked grin and a thumbs up. "Don't worry, Mattie. The Hero never gets punished for fightin' an evil-doer!"

"The 'evil-doer's' his son," muttered Mattie under his breath, " An' y'only don't get in trouble much now 'cause he's not always home, and the maids ain't allowed ta punish you too badly. When 'e gets home, Arthur's gonna tell how mean you was ta him."

"Pssh," said Alfred airly, smiling roguishly, "Don't worry. I's can't let Artie Fartie keep being so mean to my l'il bro! S'my duty to punish 'im for the error of his ways."

Matthew giggled at the heroic pose Alfred struck, and blushed happily as his brother ruffled his hair. "But still…" he began half-heartedly.

"Still, nothin'!" interrupted Alfred stubbornly, "S'my duty to protect you, an' I'm always gonna do just that. All ya need ta do is believe in y'big bro! Dontcha worry Mattie!"

Matthew couldn't help but smile broadly at his brother and he nodded.

It was true. As much as he wanted to keep this home, as much as he liked it and the security it provided, and as much as he didn't want to ruin the life they had, he had to believe in Alfred. Alfred was always so sure what he did was right, and it always helped them in the end. If his brother said they'd be alright, he had to believe that.

Because if he couldn't trust his brother, who could he trust?

**June, 1922 **

"Master Arthur! Master Arthur! Come back here this instant! Cease this foolishness right now!"

Arthur grimaced and he clapped his hands over his ears, spurring his legs to go faster.

"Shan't!" he called back over his shoulder, rounding a corner and nearly tripping over the carpet. The maid was fast, he could hear her shoes slapping against the floor, and her agitated breathing, both getting progressively closer.

_I must hide!_ Thought Arthur desperately, sprinting down the hallway and turning another corner. His shoes skidded a bit, and he slid to a stop as he saw a door, hanging open ajar slightly. All of the other doors in this hallway were shut tight and locked, he knew, so if he ran into this room and closed the door behind him, the maid would think…

Not sparing a moment to think about why this room was open, unlike the others, Arthur dashed in, shutting the door firmly behind him. He collapsed onto the floor, panting for breath, face red and flustered and clothes disheveled. Even through the closed door and his own laboured breathing, he could hear the 'clack-clack' of the maid's shoes against the floor, getting closer…

"Hey! What are yous doin' in here?"

Arthur leapt to his feet and whirled around, green eyes widening in horror as he saw whom he was sharing the room with.

It was none other than Alfred, the rude little American who had intruded into his home. The boy was standing there with his arms folded across his chest and his torso leaning forward belligerently. Blue eyes were narrowed, and his expression was an unfriendly, irritated one.

_Of all the luck!_ Arthur cursed inwardly; cognizant of the ever-louder clack of the maid's shoes, "Sh!" he shushed, putting a finger on his lips. "Be quiet!"

Alfred's eyes flashed angrily, and he jutted his chin out stubbornly. "You ain't the boss of me!" he shouted, stalking forward, "An' I was here-,"

Arthur tackled Alfred to the floor, clapping a hand over the struggling boy's mouth, whilst using his weight to pin him to the ground. Alfred shouted and thrashed in protest, but Arthur was at least three years older than him, and sufficiently bigger.

The boys struggled for a moment, before Alfred stilled, glaring up at Arthur with hateful eyes. Arthur relaxed slightly, both at the younger boy's compliance and the sound of the maid's steps fading away into the distance.

Then he shrieked.

"Ew, ew, ew! Gads, how horrid!" howled Arthur, leaping off of Alfred and waving his hand in the air, looking at it in disgust. He turned his gaze to Alfred, who had a very smug expression on his face. The American let his tongue loll out of his mouth, and he made a big show of licking his lips.

"Your hand sure tastes good," he drawled devilishly, snickering to himself.

"That was absolutely disgusting!" shrieked Arthur, wiping his hand on the leg of his trousers, "You licked me!"

"Well yous was stranglin' me!" snapped Alfred, hands on his hips.

"I wasn't strangling you!" retaliated Arthur, striding forward angrily, "My hands were nowhere near your puny little neck. Do you even know what strangling means?"

The embarrassed flush on Alfred's face notified Arthur that, no, he didn't know exactly what strangling meant, and the Brit gave a triumphant smirk. Alfred flushed further, and turned his face away.

"You don't know, do you?" continued Arthur, feeling victorious, "Because you're just a stupid little American, and you'll never-,"

"I ain't stupid," snapped Alfred, small hands clenching into fists.

"Yes you are," rebuffed Arthur viciously, "You can't even tie your shoes. You just run around and trip and fall like a baby learning to walk. Because you're just a baby."

"I ain't a baby!"

"You are. Don't know how to button a waistcoat, tie a tie, you're just a burden, you won't amount to anything, you're so stupid."

"Shut up!"

But Arthur had no plans to shut up. He'd been having an absolutely horrible day. He had been unable to do any of his Maths questions correctly, had dozed off in History, had trouble with many of the words in literature, and had had to listen to his maids go on and on about how well the 'two new young masters' were doing. And how intelligent Matthew was, despite the fact that he never said a word, and how exuberant Alfred was, forgetting that he had broken almost every vase in the house. And how Matthew was doing surprisingly well and Alfred's determination (once he had been captured and dragged to his lesson.) was just the sweetest thing.

Once upon a time, it had been him that had been praised like that. Him that was the perfect student. Well-behaved. Smart. Did all his work perfectly.

The perfect child.

The only child.

And he really, really wished it had stayed that way.

Because Arthur couldn't stand the way his father looked at Alfred and Matthew. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners in a smile, the way his entire gaze lightened, the way he laughed at everything they did. How he beamed when Matthew showed him his (poorly) tied shoes, and Alfred recited the alphabet and the first twenty numbers, and both of them hugged his legs, while Arthur sulked in the background.

Because if Arthur had presented his achievements like that, _when_ Arthur presented his achievements like that, his father merely nodded with the barest of smiles, before asking what he planned to do next, how did he plan to improve, do better, continue to be perfect.

He wasn't satisfied. He wanted more.

But with these two bloody Americans, the man was ecstatic if they remembered which shoe went on which foot.

And that was why it felt so good to see Alfred flush in front of him, to see that oh-so-infuriating confidence flicker and dim in his eyes, to see his arrogant stance wilt slightly and all his bravado deplete to reveal the scared, scrawny, five-year-old underneath.

"You're a stupid baby," spat Arthur. "And my father's going to see it soon. And he's going to throw you and your retarded little brother out onto the street-,"

"Don't call Mattie that!" screeched Alfred, leaping forward angrily.

"You don't even know what it means!" laughed Arthur cruelly, smirking.

Alfred faltered a bit; bottom lip trembling, before he clenched his hands into fists and advanced forward.

"I know it ain't nice!" he shouted, "And no one says not nice things 'bout my little brother!"

With that, Alfred threw himself at Arthur, tackling the older boy to the ground and beating him wildly with his fists. Arthur screamed and fought to push the boy off of him, surprisingly painful blows raining down on his chest. He tore at Alfred's clothes, nails raking at the other boy's flesh, and one hand latched onto the American's hair, trying to force him up and away. Alfred screamed at the harsh pulling on his scalp, and slammed his fist into Arthur's face, snapping his head back against the floor. Stars burst in front of Arthur's eyes, and he flung his fist outward, feeling satisfied as he heard a pained yelped and his attacker fell away from him.

The Brit sat up with a groan, clutching his throbbing eye with one hand and his aching side with another.

Alfred sat across from him, rubbing at the blood trickling from his mouth. His clothes were disheveled, shirt untucked and some buttons undone, a few rips where Arthur's nails had tore. His hair was also a mess, and more than just the usual piece was sticking up now.

The two boys sat panting for a few moments, then seconds, then minutes. Neither saying a word, both glaring at each other while simultaneously nursing their hurts.

"You look ridiculous," commented Arthur after awhile, more stating a fact than an insult. Truth be told, his entire body was throbbing and he didn't particularly want to fight again.

But really, the boy looked hilarious with his swelling and protruding bottom lip.

"Sh-shut up!" shouted Alfred awkwardly, his swollen mouth making the words come out a little garbled. "Y-yous look worse! L-like a panda! Or a raccoon!"

Arthur blushed, pulling his hand away from his eye and wondering how it had blackened that quickly.

"I-it's not that bad," he protested, flustered.

Alfred rolled his eyes and smiled wryly. "Y'can't see it, so y'can't say nothin'," he stated triumphantly, that old arrogant, dripping-with-confidence look back in his eyes.

Arthur pursed his lips, but couldn't find any fault in the argument, so he turned his gaze away, choosing instead to lift up his shirt and observe the bruises that had gathered on his chest and sides. He winced as he saw the obvious discolorations marring the pale flesh, and he poked one hesitantly, before hissing in pain and recoiling.

He dropped the shirt and placed his hands at his sides, tongue snaking out over his dry lips. His gaze wandered awkwardly back to Alfred, who was staring at him intently.

"What?" snapped Arthur, irritated both from pain and the boy's very presence. Alfred's eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth, but didn't get the chance to reply. Because at that moment, the door to the room burst open, and both boys leapt to their feet.

Standing there was the maid that Arthur had been trying so desperately to avoid, Cynthia, staring at the boys with wide panicked eyes. And beside her…

Arthur's stomach dropped straight down to the soles of his shoes when he saw whom it was standing in the doorway.

His father.

"ARTHUR KIRKLAND," thundered Mr. Kirkland, stomping into the room with utter fury etched into his face. "Just what do you think you're doing? I was in the middle of an important business meeting downstairs, only to have Miss Cynthia interrupting it in hysterics because she's quite sure you're murdering Alfred in some room upstairs-,"

"I wasn't-," protested Arthur weakly.

"-and then Miss Gertrude tells me you ran away from your Literature lesson-,"

"I didn't understand what she was saying," whispered Arthur, curling inwards on himself, tears gathering in his eyes.

"-Do you know how embarrassing it was for me in front of Mr. Blackwell? To have the maid burst in about how my sons are killing each other. To have to leave a meeting- I hope you understand this will cost me a large amount of money Arthur- to come break up a fight that shouldn't have happened in the first place?"

"I-I didn't-,"

"Don't lie, Arthur. I can see that black eye clearly. And look at Alfred! He's a mess! I honestly expected better from you. Alfred is your brother. He is new to this country. You should be helping him, not beating him up! I had heard from the maids that you've been nothing but nasty to those poor boys, but I didn't believe it. I believed you to be above such petty behaviour, and yet…"

Arthur cringed under the torrential downpour coming from his Father's mouth. He folded his arms across his chest, not in defiance, but to try and hold in the painful hammering of his heart, to stop the sick feeling in his stomach from overcoming him. He was hunched over, head bowed and eyes scrunched shut, tears just held in check by his eyelids.

_I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry- _

"HEY!"

Mr. Kirkland stopped his tirade, his mouth hanging open in an 'o' shape, brow furrowed.

Alfred had stalked forward, moving to stand between Arthur and his father. His hands were on his hips, and his face was scrunched up in determination and anger, looking quite hilarious with his swollen lip and wild hair.

"Alfred?" responded Mr. Kirkland quizzically, "I apologize if my tone upset you, but please-,"

"Stop yellin' at Arthur!" commanded the young boy haughtily, causing the Englishman's eyebrows to shoot up to his hairline in surprise. Behind Alfred, Arthur stiffened and looked up in confusion, watery eyes wide with shock.

"S'not nice, 'e's ya son!" continued Alfred, accent becoming more prevalent in his anger. "An' 'sides, I was the one who 'it 'im first. I actually jumped on 'im. See, he di'n't start nothin'! Mista Kirkland, y'should be yellin' at me."

Arthur stared at the boy in absolute bewilderment, jaw hanging open.

_What…is he doing? He hates me doesn't he? I've been nothing but nasty to him…shouldn't he want me to get in trouble? _

Mr. Kirkland's shocked look had given way to a contemplative one. His gaze stayed on Alfred, before shifting to Arthur. The boy jumped slightly when he saw his father's intense green eyes fall upon him, and he straightened up, rubbing the back of his hand across his dewy eyes.

"Arthur," asked Mr. Kirkland, walking past Alfred and kneeling down in front of his son, "Is what Alfred said true?"

Arthur stared at his Father, his mind echoing with troubling thoughts and images. He flashed back to the memory of his father's face moments before. Thunderous, angry, disappointed. And the look he sometimes gave him, the proud one. And the look on his face now. Searching, looking for an answer, looking for the truth.

The truth. Was it worth getting in trouble? Deteriorating their already broken and mangled relationship? For sure, Alfred and Matthew would be the favoured sons afterwards. Arthur might get disinherited completely. He'd be the one thrown out onto the streets. The behaviour he'd been displaying in the past months had been absolutely wicked, and he knew that, and the maids knew that, and Alfred and Matthew knew that, and if he told the truth, his father would know that.

"Yes Father," said Arthur swallowing thickly, "He jumped on me first."

Mr. Kirkland relaxed slightly, and turned to Alfred with pursed lips and a frown. The American stiffened, but met the man's gaze evenly, his eyes not flickering towards Arthur even once. Mr. Kirkland began to rise, but was halted by Arthur pulling on his sleeve.

"But," continued the nine-year-old, lip trembling a bit, "But it's because I was saying mean things to him. I was being very impolite. I called him….I called him stupid, and a baby. And I said mean things about Matthew too. That's why he jumped on me Father. So," Arthur released his father's shirt, stepping back and squaring his shoulders, lifting his tremulous gaze to meet the man's.

"So it's my fault, not his."

There was silence in the room. Arthur dropped his gaze immediately, arms once again folded across his chest as he stared down at his shoes, gnawing on his bottom lip. Alfred stared at him with open shock. Mr. Kirkland had an unreadable expression on his face, and he stared, eyes flickering back and forth between both boys, settling on their faces, their reactions, their injuries and ruffled clothing. The man ran a hand through his hair, and then down his face tiredly, his heavy sigh breaking the stifling silence.

"Arthur," he began, causing the boy to look up, a scared, tearful look on his face. Mr. Kirkland winced at the expression, cringed at seeing his boy so afraid, and quickly turned his head towards Alfred. "Alfred," he said, clearing his throat a bit to ensure that his voice had the necessary stern edge to it. A brief silence followed, before Alfred guessed what was expected and responded with a quiet: "Yes, Mister Kirkland?"

There was no slurring of words, or exclusion of consonants. The diction and grammar was perfect, and Mr. Kirkland felt a small sense of happiness that Alfred's language was progressing so much.

Arthur swallowed, and opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat a couple of times, the coughs coming out a bit choked with tears.

"Y-yes F-f-father?" he managed to squeak out after several tries, his voice breaking on the last word. He was scared. So scared. He was terrified. His father was going to be furious. He was going to disown him. He was going to be disowned, and thrown out on the street and Oh God he didn't want to die a pauper!

"The two of you are grounded," said Mr. Kirkland gruffly, standing up and turning away from the two young boys. "You are confined to your bedrooms until further notice. Your meals will be brought up to you. That is all."

And with that, Mr. Kirkland swept out of the room, not giving the boys another glance.

In the hallway, Mr. Kirkland let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, leaning against the wall and running a hand through his hair.

"Young boys," he muttered to himself, shaking his head, "I just don't know how to deal with them."

The maid, who had remained by the doorway, nodded in agreement. "They can be a mite difficult, sir. If I may…"

Mr. Kirkland raised a questioning eyebrow, but nodded to the woman, allowing her to bypass her social status a bit and continue. Cynthia blushed and curtsied in appreciation. "Well sir," she continued, "Master Arthur doesn't get along well with Young Masters Alfred and Matthew, and Young Masters Alfred and Matthew don't do naught with anyone but each other. That sort of strife will continue forever if they don't have the chance to work it out. And Master Matthew is far too dependent on his brother. If I may sir, I think Masters Arthur and Alfred should serve their punishment together, as a means to get them closer. And that way, Master Matthew will also be spending time away from his brother. In my humblest opinion, of course."

Mr. Kirkland stared at her, a pensive expression on his face. The man wasn't home much. He was forever being called away on business trips and all sorts of things, and when he was home, he was always locked away in his study doing paperwork or meeting with associates, or hosting dinner parties and afternoon teas with the important members of society. He rarely had time to check on his boys, and when he did, he was mostly concerned about how Alfred and Matthew were adjusting.

A twinge of guilt lanced through him as he saw Arthur's terrified, tearful face. He had no idea what was going on in his biological son's life. Arthur had always been so sufficient, so good at everything. He always seemed happiest when he was working, so Mr. Kirkland always asked him about his lessons. The boy didn't seem to do anything else, and it was what he excelled at. He was sure to be an excellent businessman one day and Mr. Kirkland wanted to help propel him into that, especially if he enjoyed doing it.

A dark look flitted across the man's face as he thought of Arthur's future, and what he would be expected to do, but he shook it off quickly, returning his focus to the present. After all, Arthur was still young, and lately Mr. Kirkland was staring to feel that succeeding at his lessons wasn't the key to his son's happiness. Arthur was nine-years-old. He was a boy.

There should be more to life then doing lessons.

And Mr. Kirkland felt like hitting himself for just realizing that now.

Arthur needed to interact more with other people, with people his own age, with boys his own age. He was far too closed off, too serious for a child. He hadn't even done anything for his birthday! Just glowered at Alfred and Matthew across the table during his special dinner. He needed to get out of this stuffy mansion and just….be.

Arthur was grounded at the moment, but as soon as that was lifted…

And until then…

"I agree," said Mr. Kirkland after a long pause, smiling slightly at the maid, "The boys should share their sentence together."

_It will be good for them,_ thought the Englishman, _good for them both._ Boys would be boys, and more often than not, they needed to be boys with other boys. Having them grounded together would help them grow closer.

Mr. Kirkland winced as he heard muffled shouting from inside the room, as well as the crash of what he assumed to be a table being knocked over.

_If they don't kill each other first. _

/

**Do you know how difficult it is to write from the perspective of a little boy? **

**Very. **

**Very difficult. **

**Do you know how difficult it is to write a Brooklyn accent combined with garbled five-year-old speech? **

**Also very difficult. **

**That said, thanks so much for all the reviews! I got six reviews last chapter so this update time was only 2 weeks! Hope you enjoyed!**

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I really love reading your reviews and your reactions to stuff in the story. I can't wait until we get to some of the cliffhangers in future chapters! (ehehehehe) **

**xoxo, natcat 5 ;p**

**/**

Chapter 5: Snips and snails and puppy dog tails. With boundless joys, and broken toys, there's nothing quite like little boys.


	5. Something has Changed Within Me

_Chapter 5_

_"Something has changed within me. **Something is not the same." **_

-Defying Gravity, **Chris Colfer **(not originally by him but shhh)

**London, England- June, 1922 **

Alfred was unbearable.

He was annoying. And rude. And vulgar. And, quite frankly, Arthur wanted nothing to do with him.

The nine-year-old had been able to skillfully ignore Alfred by getting lost in his Greek legends, holing himself up on the far side of the room, sitting on his bed and blocking out the incessant fidgeting sounds from across the room.

He had kept himself amused and his mind off of the throbbing in his eye by immersing himself in his book of mythology. Arthur loved reading about all of the heroes and heroines and the Gods, but he especially loved the sprites and the fauns and the naiads and all of the mythical creatures. It wasn't a well-known fact, but he _loved _things pertaining to magic.

However, being confined to a room was dreadfully boring, especially for a young boys. In the room that Alfred shared with Matthew, there was no shortage of toys to keep the boy occupied, and he could spend hours playing with his brother. Arthur's room, however, held only a single toy box, and was filled mostly with books and lessons.

Alfred had not had the opportunity to bring any of his toys over to Arthur's room, save for a single wooden train and a stuffed lion, and he was too proud to even _consider _borrowing any of Arthur's toys. The boy was dreadfully bored. He had been preoccupied with his lessons previously, but…today…today there were no lessons.

So he fidgeted. He fidgeted on the makeshift bed. He fiddled with his shoelaces and he fiddled with the buttons of his shirt and he fiddled with the blanket and he rocked back and forth causing the mattress to squeak and popped his lips and sucked his teeth and began pacing back and forth. And then the pacing proved too boring and he began hopping on one foot, then two feet, then skipping.

Greek mythology was enthralling, but it was nowhere near enthralling enough to block out the sounds of a bored, hyperactive American.

Arthur had eventually broken his strict ignoring of the boy to throw a book at his head. He had to credit Alfred's reflexes, because the six-year-old had managed to snatch the book out of the air with what looked like actual ease. Alfred's had made as if to throw the book back, and Arthur had had to break his silence and speak to him. He had to _inform _the boy that he was not being malicious, rather, he was being charitable, and that the book was a gift so that the American would stop making all that racket!

The owlish look Alfred had given him had only irritated Arthur more, and he had returned to his previous act of completely ignoring the other boy, quite literally burying his nose into his book.

Arthur hoped that giving Alfred the book would allow him to peaceably return to completely ignoring the American. After all, the story he had thrown was one of his favourites. A story of dashing Perseus and his amazing rescue of the Princess Andromeda. His slaying of the Gorgons, his amazing flying horse…oh if _he _had a Pegasus…a flying horse of his very own!

Arthur had drifted off into his own thoughts, a content smile on his face. He was able to float happily for quite awhile. Only to, once again, be disturbed by the fidgeting of a _certain someone. _

To his credit, it did appear that Alfred had indeed tried to read the book, but the text was too small and the words were too big and there were barely any pictures and quite frankly Alfred couldn't make heads or tails of it.

So he'd returned to fidgeting.

He was still holding the book, and glancing at every once and awhile, but he was primarily bouncing up and down on the bed, swinging his legs back and forth and- God help him- humming under his breath.

"For Goodness sake!" exclaimed Arthur, slamming his book down angrily and glaring across the room at Alfred. "Would you stop that fidgeting! I gave you a book, why don't you read it?"

Alfred blinked that owlish blink again, before tilting his head to the side, an odd expression on his face. It was somewhat sad, and perhaps a bit annoyed.

In a flash, it was gone, replaced by a large, awkward grin.

"Aw, I don' like books!" drawled Alfred, leaning back on his hands and swinging his legs back and forth. "They're so borin'! Don't you have anythin' fun ta do?"

Arthur's cheeks coloured and he huffed, folding his arms across his chest. "Reading is plenty of fun! And that book I was kind enough to lend you is one of the best that I have!" The young boy turned his head away haughtily, feeling somewhat offended that Alfred hadn't enjoyed his beloved book.

"Your intelligence," he growled, with his head still turned away, "Simply isn't enough to fully enjoy it."

Silence met this statement and Arthur snorted, snatching up his book and burying his face in it once more. He was relieved to hear no more fidgeting from the other side of the room, and he delved deep into his book, intent on getting as much out of it as he possibly could before the accursed American started fidgeting again.

But it was several minutes later before the silence in the room was broken, and the sound that broke it was the slight rustling of paper.

Annoyed again, Arthur peeked up over his book, eyes narrowed angrily.

Alfred was sitting cross-legged on the bed. The book was in his lap, and he was staring at it with an almost laughable intensity. His finger was on the page, following lines as his mumbled to himself. Straining his ears, Arthur felt a strange pang in his chest as he realized that Alfred was sounding out the words. He seemed to be struggling, and his free hand gripped the book tightly as the expression on his face became increasingly frustrated.

A twinge of guilt went through Arthur as he realized that the book he had given Alfred was quite advanced. It was advanced even for Arthur to read, and the British boy often came across words he could neither pronounce or understand.

Alfred was three years younger than him, and he was just learning how to read.

The next pang of guilt was stronger, and, barely registering what he was doing, Arthur found himself gently setting his own book down and sliding off of his bed, making his way tentatively across the room. Alfred looked up immediately, his eyes angrier than Arthur had seen in all of the days of their confinement.

"What?" he spat, blue eyes blazing, "I's is readin' ya shtoopid book. I can read, see? I's is readin' it, like a right gennelmen, 'cause I's gots plenty a in- intel- int-tella-,"

"Intelligence," supplied Arthur, stopping a few feet away from the bed. "It's…it's pronounced intelligence."

"I knew that!" snapped Alfred, gripping the book so tight that his nails made little crescents in the leather. "I-I knew that! I ain't shtoopid!"

Anger began to bubble up within Arthur, and he felt his hands clench into fists at his sides.

"Stop yelling at me!" he shouted, taking a threatening step forward. "I was not going to call you stupid! I would do nothing of the sort! I…we are supposed to be civil with one another, and I _am_ trying! I only came over here to offer you some help in reading!"

Alfred's eyes grew wide, and then narrowed with apprehension. Arthur's cheeks flushed with both rage and embarrassment, and he turned on his heel, stalking back towards his own side of the room.

"Don't worry," he growled under his breath, "I shan't make such an offer aga-,"

His sentence was halted by the sound of leather shoes clacking on the floor, and the even more unnerving feeling of a hand grabbing on to the sleeve of his shirt.

Arthur whirled around, jerking away from the touch with a startled yelp.

"What are you-," he stuttered, flustered by Alfred's sudden appearance _right behind him, _"Why are you-,"

"I ain't," interrupted Alfred, an embarrassed tinge to his cheeks, "I ain't stupid or nothin'. But…but I'm really bored! An'…an' that book does look awful interestin'. But…y'know…Miss What's-her-face, she ain't any kinda teacher. And, heck, she ain't taught me or Mattie…" Here, the American paused, and a look that could almost be passed off as…_pain _flickered across his face. He swallowed thickly and shook his head, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Sh-she ain't taught me or Mattie nothin' like what's in that book. An', well, your room's awful borin', an' I ain't got nothin' else ta do. But the book's awful diff'cult. I mean, not for me, but I-,"

"Oh for Goodness sake, be _quiet,"_ moaned Arthur, placing his hand on his brow like he had seen distraught maids do many times. "You are giving me a _dreadful _headache." He always heard the maids say that. He liked the word dreadful, and though he didn't have a headache, he thought the phrase was sophisticated enough to convince Alfred of Arthur's language superiority.

After all, Arthur was going to help him read, right? That was what all the babbling was about, wasn't it?

"I shall," continued Arthur, trying to make his voice sound smart and grown-up, "I shall help- I shall _aide _you in _improving _your reading skills. I am most…_affluent _in my reading _attributes _and I would be happy to _partake _my knowledge with you!"

Arthur beamed; feeling accomplished at all of the vocabulary words he had used. He had some doubts about whether or not the words had been used in the right context but, well, Alfred wouldn't be able to tell the difference, would he?

Alfred looked quite confused, actually. And nowhere near impressed.

"…I has no clue whatcha said," said Alfred flatly. "Hows ya s'posed ta teach me if ya can't even _speak _English?"

Arthur's cheeks coloured, and he placed his hands on his hips, scowling at the younger boy.

_What a…a…an absurd child! I go out on a limb to offer him my help, and he's rude enough to- _

"But…I don't mind."

Arthur's head jerked up, and his eyes narrowed in confusion. "Wh-what?" stammered the English boy, staring at the American with suspicion. Alfred grinned crookedly, placing his hands behind his head and shrugging.

"I dunno. I mean, ya talk all funny, but I really wanna read this book!" laughed Alfred, picking up the book and waving it in fron of Arthur's face. "An' 'sides. Book readin' is boring. I don't do it much. But ya read all the time, right?"

"Well of course I do! I- Did you just call me boring?"

Alfred laughed again, skipping over to the other side of the room and plopping himself down on Arthur's bed, placing the book on his lap and folding his hands neatly atop of it. The picture of a perfect student.

Arthur snorted, laughing despite himself, and Alfred giggled in response. Arthur tried to quell his laughter, trying to remind himself that being trapped in a room with this insufferable American was _not _a laughing matter…but Alfred had begun making the most ridiculous faces, and soon, Arthur found himself doubled over.

He had been confined in the room with Alfred for four days. The days had been filled with uncomfortable silence, a tense atmosphere, and animosity crackling in the air. Arthur didn't like Alfred. Alfred was annoying. Alfred was kind of stupid. Alfred had rudely muscled his way into Arthur's life and Arthur didn't like it.

But Alfred was younger than him, and Alfred had lived on the streets. Alfred _did _seem to try and do his lessons, and, as far Arthur had seen, Alfred didn't _actually _spend his time concocting ways to steal Arthur's father from him. And the American, perhaps, wasn't as smug and stuck-up as he had first appeared, seeing as he was willing to ask for help in regards to his reading.

Arthur straightened up, catching his breath after the unexpected laughing fit. Alfred was leaning over the bed, hand stretching out to touch the toy box that sat at the foot of it.

"Oi!" called out Arthur indignantly, laughter ceasing, "That's mine! I didn't say you could touch that!"

"Aw, c'mon! I decided I dun wanna read anymore! I wanna play! What toys ya got?"

"H-hey! Those are _my _toys! And what's wrong with reading? I said I'd teach you!"

"Yeah, but I dun wanna read anymore! Let's play! Play!"

"I don't want to play with you!"

"Aw, but I wanna play wit' you Artie!"

"_What _did you call me?"

**/**

_A week and a half later…_

If you had asked the servants of the Kirkland household what they thought of young Master Matthew, they wouldn't have had too much to say.

He's _quiet. _They'd say. He doesn't _say anything. _He _fades into the background _and _doesn't make a sound_ and, quite frankly, _there isn't too much to him._

They might comment on the fact that Matthew seemed quite intelligent, and was able to answer the questions they give him on paper and picked up reading quite fast. They might say he was much less destructive and demanding then his 'twin' brother.

And on that, they might begin to gossip about his relationship with his brother. Which, while sweet, was a bit worrisome. They might comment on how Matthew tried to spend every moment by Alfred's side. How the boy seemed listless and afraid when his brother wasn't around. How disruptive the panic attacks he gets could be.

_He needs to learn how to function without his brother, _they would say.

And if Matthew had any amount of courage, he would have firmly told them that he needed to do no such thing, because his brother would always be here with him, always by his side.

And then of course, they would have laughed at his present situation.

Because he hadn't seen his brother in two weeks.

Matthew stared at the closed door, bottom lip quivering as tears gathered in his eyes.

Every time he came to stand here, the door was still closed. Shut tight, possibly locked, and an immovable barrier between him and his brother. After leaving America, he had begun to entertain the possibility that the threat of something separating him from his brother was gone. Not sickness, not cruel adults and orphanages, not the dangers of the street, nothing.

But here they were, in England, and a door had become an immovable wall between him and his lifeline.

A _door. _

Matthew whimpered slightly and clutched at his sleeves, rocking back and forth on his heels as he stared at the door with watery eyes.

Alfred was inside there. He was shut inside there because he had fought with Arthur and made Mr. Kirkland mad. For some reason, the punishment for fighting with Arthur was being shut in a room with Arthur. That didn't quite make sense to Matthew, but then again, most things in England made little sense to him. The most prevalent of those things at the moment being why _he _was also being punished for Alfred and Arthur's mistake. Why couldn't Matthew see his brother? He hadn't done anything. He had been sitting in his room, practicing his reading and waiting for his brother to come back so that they could play. Only to find out from a maid that Alfred had committed some great atrocity and was to be relocated to Arthur's room until further notice. Matthew wouldn't be allowed to see him.

Matthew had been horrified. He'd followed the servants as they carried out Al's things, desperate to find out what had happened, what was wrong, what did this mean, and could he _please see his brother? _

Alfred was in trouble, they'd said. Alfred was being confined to Arthur's room with the older boy, they'd said. Alfred was forbidden from seeing Matthew, and vice versa, they'd said.

_Forbidden from seeing…_

None of the servants had been surprised when he'd had another panic attack. Exasperated, maybe. Annoyed, perhaps. But not surprised. It had continued until Mr. Kirkland had been summoned, and the man had pulled Matthew into his arms, and patted his hair awkwardly until the boy had stopped crying and gasping for breath.

Matthew wasn't sure why, but he really liked Mr. Kirkland. He felt safe around him, and would forever be thankful for the fact that the man had pulled him and his brother off the streets. Mr. Kirkland had calmly explained why it was necessary to separate the boys. That Alfred needed to be punished for his actions and that it would be good for Matthew to learn how to live and be independent from his brother.

Matthew had wanted to argue. He had wanted to say that he didn't _need _to be independent from his brother. That he was perfectly fine with being dependent on his brother because his brother would _always _be there for him.

But he didn't. Because as much as he liked the man, Mr. Kirkland frightened him a little. With his deep, booming voice, and the way he exuded importance and the way the servants and guests and even Arthur went on and on about how important the man was. Matthew didn't want to upset him. He didn't want to make him mad. He didn't want the man to change his mind and decide that it had been a mistake to adopt the two boys off the street. A mistake to bring them into his household. It was a fear that still had a tight hold on Matthew's heart, and it stayed his tongue when Mr. Kirkland was explaining his separation from his brother. Matthew had merely nodded, like he understood, like he agreed that, yes, separation was best for both of them.

But he did not agree at all.

And he was wishing now, more than ever, that he had gotten over his shyness and said something. Told Mr. Kirkland how lost and hurt and afraid he would be without his brother.

Then, perhaps, he would not be in this situation.

Perhaps, the door would not be closed.

Matthew looked at the shut portal with watery eyes, his breath shaky and uneven as the tears threatened to spill over. He had gotten better in the _fourteen days _of separation. He had learned to contain his crying so that he no longer experienced a panic attack every other second. His eyes were always damp, and his chest ached with loneliness, but he was able to stop himself from disrupting the rest of the household with his own woes.

For the past fourteen days.

He was lonely, he was scared, he was worried. He was worried because he knew that Arthur hated Alfred and Alfred hated Arthur and who knew what Arthur did to Alfred behind that closed door? Arthur could be hurting his brother! Everyday! And no one would notice because the door was always closed!

Matthew worried the bottom of his lip, wrapping his arms tighter around his torso. He could feel his chest constricting, his breath getting short. Tears were starting to pool in his eyes and his body started to shake.

"Master Alfred?"

Matthew jumped a little at the sound of a voice behind him. He turned his head to look over his shoulder, blinking his dewy eyes a few times before rubbing his sleeve across them. Vision clear, he looked up to see who had snuck up behind him.

It was a maid, more specifically, the maid who was in charge of bringing up the meals to Alfred and Arthur throughout the day. Her name was Theresa, Matthew knew, and he had run into her several times already.

And each and every time, she thought he was Alfred.

Matthew shook his head quietly, scrunching down into his collar and shuffling away from the door. Why did she always think that? He and Alfred might have been _similar, _but they didn't look _identical. _Their eyes were a completely different colour for one thing…

"Oh know you don't, Young Master Alfred. You get right back in there. You _know _you're not allowed to leave Young Master Arthur's room!"

Theresa stepped in front of Matthew, blocking the boy's path with her arms folded across her chest and a stern expression on her face. Matthew balked, and stumbled backwards, shaking his head furiously. It was times like these that Matthew really wished he wasn't so frightfully shy, and that he had the courage to speak to someone other than Alfred and Mr. Kirkland. He clearly needed to _tell _Theresa that he wasn't Alfred, as she didn't seem to be able to tell from looking at him, but his own insecurities prevented him from doing so. It was lucky that another maid always happened to walk by and correct the maid before it escalated into any awkward or unfortunate situation.

Hesitantly, Matthew slid his eyes up from the floor and looked down the hallway.

No one was coming.

A tumbly feeling beginning to cumulate in his stomach he looked down the other direction, straining to hear the telltale clicks of Cynthia's shoes on the floor.

But there was nothing.

No one was coming.

And as such, Theresa took Matthew firmly by the arm, opened the door to Arthur's room, and pushed him in with a disgruntled shake of her head before closing the door behind her.

/

/

"Artie, what does this word mean?"

"Alfred, I just told you what it means. And don't call me Artie!"

"I forgot!"

Arthur groaned and his face met his palm in a spectacular fashion. Beside him, Alfred gave a sheepish smile, tilting his head to the side as he looked up at the boy sitting beside him. "Sorry, Artie! Can you tell me what it means again?"

Arthur sighed, removing his hand from his face and peering over Alfred's shoulder at the book that sat on the bed in front of him.  
>"The word is 'mischievous'," said Arthur, taking care to get the pronunciation right himself, "And it means…" Arthur paused, pouting inwardly as he realized that Alfred would probably just forget the definition again as soon as he told it to him. The American had the shortest attention span <em>ever, <em>and he much preferred poking around Arthur's things to doing his lessons…

_Oh, _thought Arthur with an inward chuckle, _Now there's a thought…_

"Mischievous," continued Arthur with a small smirk, " Means 'Alfred Kirkland'."

Alfred blinked in surprise and then frowned. "What does that mean?" he huffed, sitting up and folding his arms across his chest. Arthur laughed at the indignant expression on the younger boy's face, and his laughter increased as Alfred pouted, his bottom lip protruding ridiculously.

"Artie, you're bein' mean!" whined Alfred, reaching over to tug on the older boy's arm. "Whassit mean? C'mon! Why's my name a def'nition?"

Arthur's chuckles quieted and he smiled at the other blonde. "Doesn't matter really. And besides, haven't we done enough reading for today? Aren't you bored?"

Alfred looked surprised at the question, before grinning and nodding his head downwards.

"Uh-huh! We been readin' all mornin'! Let's do somethin' fun!"

"We _have _been reading all morning. Honestly Alfred, your grammar is horrid."

It had been a fortnight since the two boys had been confined to their room, and, against all odds, their relationship had improved immensely. Arthur's offer to help teach Alfred how to read had breached the thick wall of animosity between them, and the Englishboy found himself able to tolerate the insufferable American's presence much better than he would have thought possible. Alfred was annoying, yes, but over the past two weeks, Arthur had discovered that there was a lot more to the American than he had originally thought.

Arthur's first opinion had been that Alfred was a rude little American who didn't know a word of proper English, had no respect, and was mooching off of his Father's money. He had disliked the boy immensely, from the boy's outgoing attitude, to the way he ran around the house with no regard for the people he bowled over, or the priceless artifacts he crashed into and broke. Alfred, it seemed, had no respect for other people or property. A fact confirmed by the casual, rude way he spoke to people. The way he asked impertinent, annoying questions, the way he stuck his nose into everything, the way he followed his Father around whenever he was home…

And there, that was perhaps the main point. The main reason that the mere sight of Alfred had been enough to make Arthur's teeth and hands clench and his whole being be consumed with rage. The way Alfred, and his brother, clung to his Father. The way his Father let them cling. The way Alfred seemed capable of making his Father smile at the slightest things, the way it was effortless for him to make his Father proud…

Arthur hated it. All of it.

And he hated Alfred, a lot.

But now, after spending two weeks with Alfred, Arthur was finding his opinion a bit changed.

For one thing, the boy's English was a lot better than he had thought it was. Arthur had discovered that Alfred's accent became more prevalent when he was angry or upset. Otherwise, he was quite capable of speaking English.

In addition, his short attention stemmed from an insatiable curiosity and a surprisingly fervent desire to learn. Alfred's constant fidgeting when doing his lessons was not because he disliked schoolwork or didn't want to learn, but rather, because he wanted to be learning _more. _Wanted to be somewhere else, learning something new. Helping Alfred with his reading hadn't been as stressful or aggravating as Arthur had thought it would be. Because as long as each book he helped Alfred with was completely different, had a completely new and exciting topic, than the American would, for the most part, remain interested.

For a short time anyways.

"Let's play, Artie!" chirped Alfred, pulling on Arthur's arm and jumping off of the bed. "I wanna play with your soldiers again!"

"It's _Arthur!_" shouted Arthur indignantly, but he allowed himself to be dragged to the other side of the room to his own bed, and to the toybox that sat at the foot of it.

Arthur had surprised himself when he had allowed Alfred to look into his coveted toybox. Arthur really wasn't one for toys, but each and everyone of the items in his toybox had been handpicked and given to him by his Father. They were his most prized possessions. He never let anyone touch them, and had yelled at a maid when he saw her trying to clean one of the trains. But, seeing how bored Alfred was, and how there was no way the boy could survive with his own bear minimum of toys, Arthur had _somehow _convinced himself to let Alfred play with the toys. Under his strict supervision of course.

Alfred pulled out a handful of small wooden soldiers, grinning as he did.

"Artie! Let's play The Great War! I'll be the awesome Americans, and you can be the Huns!" said Alfred cheerfully, carefully positioning the soldiers on the ground, and pulling more out of the box.

"O-oi! Why do I have to be the Germans?" protested Arthur, kneeling on the floor and helping to put the wooden men into position. "Can't I be the British?"

"But the British and the Americans were on the same side!" countered Alfred, "If ya wanna be the British, than we can play Revolution!"

Arthur scowled, but nodded nonetheless.

The two boys set up their respective sides, Arthur concentrating immensely on the positions he placed his soldiers in, while Alfred scattered them willy-nilly across the field, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth in mock concentration. It didn't take the boys long to set up, and they were soon engrossed in their game. Complete with sound effects, battle cries, glorious army deaths, and slightly inglorious deaths (Sergeant Smith, for example, met his untimely demise by falling into the latrine).

"And with a magnificent maneuver by General Kirkland, the American troops are surrounded! The entire group is captured!" cheered Arthur happily, circling his soldiers around a small collection of Alfred's men. The six-year-old pouted in response, looking down at his loss soldiers sullenly, when suddenly his eyes widened in panic, and he reached into the group and plucked one of the wooden men out.

"H-hey!" spluttered Arthur indignantly, annoyance lighting in his eyes, "What are you doing?"

Alfred's pout became more pronounced, and he cradled the small wooden soldier to his chest. "I-I don't want this soldier to be captured!"

"He was in the group! That means he's captured!" argued Arthur, immensely peeved that Alfred was defying the rules of their game. "Don't cheat!"

Alfred's bottom lip quivered and he shook his head. "Uh-uh. I's is keepin' dis one!"

Arthur blinked, and his eyes narrowed. "They're _my _soldiers," he growled, reaching out to wrest the small wooden man from the American. Alfred jerked back, still clutching the soldier tightly. "This'n's my fav'rite! I's wanna keep it! Can't I's keep just dis one?" Alfred stared angrily at Arthur, blue eyes both furious and pleading. Arthur faltered as the wide blue gaze turned towards him, and he struggled to interpret what the younger boy had just said.

_His accent is so thick! _Grumbled the Englishboy internally. A twinge suddenly shot through Arthur, and his anger diminished. _He must be upset…_

"Oh for Goodness sake!" huffed Arthur, withdrawing and folding his arms across his chest. "If you want it so badly you can keep it! It's just one soldier anyways."

Alfred uncurled from his defensive position, and he stared at Arthur in disbelief. "Seriously? I's can keep it?"

Heat rushed into Arthur's cheeks as Alfred stared at him, blue eyes wide and ecstatic as an overjoyed grin began tugging his lips upwards.

"W-well it seems to mean so much to you!" spluttered Arthur. "I-If you really want it-,"

Without warning, Arthur found himself with an armful of American as Alfred launched himself at the older boy and wrapped his arms around his neck.

"Thanks so much, Artie!" cheered Alfred happily, nuzzling their cheeks together. "You're the best!"

Arthur's mouth hung open, the nine-year-old stunned into silence. In all his life, he could not remember being this close to another human being. His Father patted him on the head, the maids had to get somewhat close to do up the buttons on his clothes, but _this. _Someone wrapping their arms around him with their face pressed against him…

Arthur was freaked out.

He was about to lift his arms to give Alfred a fierce push that would certainly send the American flying across the room, when the door banged open and a small figure came stumbling in, falling onto the floor and affectively shattering the moment.

/

Matthew flailed as he tumbled into the room, the strength with which he was pushed causing him to lose his footing. The young boy did a 180 turn on one foot, before falling backwards onto his bottom with a tiny 'oof!'

Matthew opened the eyes that he had closed when he had been pushed into the room, blinking them blearily. They flew open wide, however, when he saw the scene in front of him.

Arthur, mean old Arthur, and Alfred, his beloved big brother, pressed up close to one another. Both of them were looking at him, but all Matthew could see was how _angry _Arthur looked…

"G-get away from brother!" shouted Matthew, running forward and pushing Arthur away from Alfred. The English boy hit the floor and slid, hitting the back of his bed. Alfred tumbled forward as Arthur was suddenly ripped from his grasp, and his eyes widened in horror at the painful 'thud' sound that came from Arthur's back hitting the bedpost.

"Al," began Matthew, crouching beside his brother and reaching a hand out towards him, "Are you al-,"

"Artie!" exclaimed Alfred, shooting away from Matthew to rush to Arthur's side. "Artie are y'okay?"

Matthew froze, his hand still in that outstretched position. He retracted it slowly, clutching both hands to his chest and watching with wide eyes as his brother helped Arthur up, fussing over him and repeatedly asking if he was alright.

…_What? _Thought Matthew, watching the scene with complete confusion, _Why is… _

"Mattie!"

Matthew jumped, his eyes jumping up to meet his brother's.

They were furious.

His brother's eyes were furious.

And they were looking at _him. _

Matthew's jaw dropped, and he curled up, feeling tears beginning to prickle and gather along the rims of his eyes.

Alfred…Alfred got mad a lot. He was always mad at every single adult in America, mad at their parents for abandoning them, at the police for chasing them, at the rich people with all that delicious food for ignoring them. And he was mad here. Mad at the servants for always grabbing him by the ear and admonishing him. Mad at the teachers for the boring lessons. And mad at Arthur. Always mad at Arthur because Arthur was always mad at them.

But now….

Now, Alfred was mad at _him. _And was defending _Arthur. _

Alfred had never been mad at him. _Never. _They were brothers. They were all each other had. Without one another, they had nothing.

_Nothing. _

Alfred glared at his brother, hands placed belligerently on his hips as he stalked across the room. "Mattie! Why did you-,"

He froze.

Matthew's head was bowed and his entire body was shaking. A few whimpers escaped him, which soon gave way to full out sobs. The young boy curled up into a ball, his hands clutching his head, a keening noise escaping his throat as rivers of tears flowed down his cheeks and dripped onto his knees.

"_Mattie!" _Alfred rushed towards his brother, previous anger completely forgotten as he wrapped his arms around his brother's form, pulling Mattie's head towards his chest and holding him close.

"I'm sorry!" cried Alfred, tears beginning to bud within his own eyes. "I'm so sorry Mattie! I didn't mean to yell! I'm sorry!" Matthew continued to sob, but he turned his face to bury it in his brother's chest, his hands clutching at Alfred's shirt.

Arthur got to his feet slowly, eyes narrowed in apprehension. That push had _hurt. _And he was sure to have a nasty bruise on his back from where it had hit the bed. It had _really hurt. _Arthur had half a mind to tell his father. Everyone always painted Matthew as the shy little angel, and yet he was actually such a _brute. _

And now, Alfred was fawning all over him! Alfred was _crying_! They had been having such fun together, playing their little war game, and Matthew just had to come and ruin _everything…_

"M'sorry," mumbled Matthew lifting his head up and taking Arthur by surprise. (He had never heard the boy speak before). "M'sorry. I thought 'e was hurtin' you. M'sorry. I didn't mean ta make you mad. M'sorry, sorry, sorry…"

"I shouldn't a yelled!" replied Alfred, wiping the tears from his brother's cheeks. "I should never yell atcha! I'm super sorry, Mattie! I'm da worst big bro eva!"

"That's not true!" defended Matthew, "You're the best big bro in the world! An' I missed you lots-,"

"_Ahem._"

Both brothers froze, and Alfred turned towards Arthur at the same time Matthew buried his face back into his chest.

"What are you doing in here?" asked Arthur, his tone less then welcoming, "I don't believe you're allowed to see your brother just yet, are you Matthew?"

Matthew flinched and clung closer to Alfred, who frowned.

"Aw, it don't matter, Artie!" he said, his frown transforming into a grin, "I'm just glad that Mattie's here now! Now we can all play together! An' he don't have to be all by 'iself!"

"He _doesn't _have to be all by _himself," _corrected Arthur with a scowl, "And he _pushed _me!"

"He thought you was hurtin' me!" defended Alfred, holding his brother tighter, "He still thinks you're a mean ol' coot, Artie. 'e doesn't know dat you're fun an nice!"

Arthur blinked, cheeks flushing at the unexpected compliment. "I-I…O-oi! Don't call me Artie!"

Alfred laughed, and Matthew peeked upwards from his brother's chest, seemingly in awe by the phenomena that was his brother and Arthur Kirkland getting along and joking with one another. Arthur noticed the boy's wary violet eyes on him and looked down to meet his gaze.

Despite Matthew's earlier act of brutality against him, the boy was currently regarding him with scared eyes. His presence was nothing like Alfred's. He didn't exude confidence or energy, and seemed quite timid and cowardly in contrast. Quite frankly, he seemed like a crybaby.

But Arthur was nine, and well on his way to becoming a gentleman. He knew better than to judge people unfairly without proper evidence and experience to back it up. Two weeks with Alfred had significantly changed his opinion of the boy. Who's to say spending a little time with Matthew wouldn't do the same?

"Alright, he can play," conceded Arthur, leaning down to begin resetting up the soldiers that had been knocked down, "But he's on your team, alright Alfred?"

Alfred beamed, and stood up, pulling Matthew to his feet as well. "Y'see, Mattie! Artie's nice! We've been playin' with his toy soldiers. An' look! He let me keep one!"

The barest of smiles spread across Matthew's face as Alfred exuberantly waved the tiny wooden soldier in front of his face. His eyes slid over to Arthur, who was staring at them both with an expectant expression, a smile tugging at his own lips.

Matthew's smile grew, and he allowed himself to be lead over to where the toy soldiers were assembled.

_This is nice…maybe…Arthur isn't so bad…maybe…things will be alright…_

**July, 1922 **

"…Not too much further now."

"Are we there yet? We been walkin' foreva!"

"Patience, Master Alfred. You haven't been walking that long. And keep those eyes covered!"

"Aw…c'mon! I wanna see where we're going! Dontcha wanna know, Mattie?"

Matthew giggled, and squeezed his brother's hand, but kept his other one placed firmly across his eyes. He could hear Cynthia shuffling behind them, herding them to where ever it was that they were going. Alfred bounced along beside him, apparently attempting to peek through his fingers so often, as the maid behind them repeatedly scolded him. Matthew giggled again at his brother's misbehaviour, and skipped along beside him, feeling surprisingly giddy.

It was amazing how much had changed in just over a week. Just nine days ago, Matthew had been completely miserable, and practically catatonic over his worry for his brother. Now, his brother was back at his side, none the worse for wear, and one of Matthew's biggest worries was no longer such.

Arthur.

For whatever reason, Arthur and Alfred now seemed to be getting along. Arthur and Alfred seemed to be _friends. _Matthew had no idea what had transpired in that room over the two-week period, but he was immensely grateful for it. Because now, he didn't have to worry about Arthur tripping either of them in the hallway, or yelling at them, or giving them scary glares.

Arthur, it turned out, was kind of nice in a scary sort of way. Mattie was still too frightened of him to look him in the eye or talk to him, but he had had fun playing soldiers with him that one time, hiding behind Al and shyly moving a few of their shared troops here and there. When another maid had come to deliver the boys' evening meal and found Matthew, immediately trying to remove him, the boy had been inconsolable. A crowbar could not have wrested Matthew from Alfred's side and, surprisingly enough, Arthur defended the brothers and asked that Mattie be allowed to stay. Or, at least, that Alfred be allowed to leave.

"It's been two weeks!" he had huffed, hands on his hips as he was prone to do when aggravated, "I've never endured a punishment for so long, and I'm quite sure that we've both learned our lesson. This is ridiculous! And look, you've made Matthew cry! Call my father this instant! I won't stand for this treatment any longer! Oi, you there! Go fetch…"

And so on. While Arthur's rant had succeeded in getting Alfred and himself freed and Matthew back with his brother, it hadn't done anything to lessen Mattie's fear of the boy. But Alfred liked Arthur. Alfred had spent his and Matthew's first night reunited chattering about how Arthur wasn't as bad as they had first imagined, and that he was actually really nice, even if he did talk a little funny.

Matthew had been happy that Arthur hadn't been mean to his big brother, and happy that Alfred and Arthur wouldn't fight anymore and get in trouble, and really happy that he had his brother back, but…

But Mattie hadn't been able to help but wonder…did Alfred really have that much fun with Arthur? When Mattie was stuck on the other side of the door, all by himself? Did Alfred…did Alfred not notice that his baby brother wasn't there, because he had Arthur? When he was on the other side of that door…did he replace Mattie with Arthur?

And would he continue to do that now that all three of them were on the same side of the door?

That had been Matthew's worry, what had made him clutch at his brother tightly when they had been in bed together, what made him quiver with worry during that night.

But that hadn't happened. Alfred had shown no sign of replacing Matthew with Arthur. No sign of leaving his little brother behind.

Rather, it seemed, he was just adding Arthur to their group.

In the days since Alfred and Arthur's release, Arthur had been tagging along to all of their escapades, to all of the little games that they played. It had begun without warning. Matthew and Alfred had been playing under the table, using purloined cutlery to reenact a famous battle that neither of them could remember the name of. The game had been interrupted abruptly by Arthur lifting the tablecloth, looking at them with narrowed green eyes. Matthew had frozen, convinced that Arthur would run and fetch a maid, getting both him and his brother in trouble. His bottom lip had begun to tremble, and he felt the beginnings of a panic attack beginning to creep in.

He _hated _getting in trouble. He lived everyday with the fear that Mr. Kirkland would get tired of them, would think they were too much trouble, would regret his decision to take them in, would turn around and throw them out. Matthew hated getting in trouble. And he still felt that Arthur disliked them. That he didn't want them there. That he would be happy if they were to go…

But, surprising him, Arthur had crawled under the table, with Alfred cheerfully greeting him and handing him a ladle, assigning him a position in their glorious army.

Matthew had watched the Englishboy nervously, unsure of how to react to Arthur intruding into their game. Alfred had adjusted the roles accordingly, placing a steel pot on the green-eyed boy's head, and plunging back into the game with zeal. Arthur had seemed unsure at first, but it didn't take long for him to get into the battle, engaging Alfred in a fierce ladle on ladle fight.

It had been nice. Matthew had smiled. He'd meekly assembled his own fork and spoon army in preparation for an attack.

Alfred was happy. And Arthur wasn't being scary. So Matthew was happy. And as the days progressed, he became even happier. Because Arthur was nice to him. Arthur had seen him eyeing his old teddy bears, and let him cuddle them. Arthur didn't trip him or anything, and played nicely in their games. Arthur smiled at him, instead of glared at him.

Matthew had been happy.

And now, Matthew was happy again. The warm feeling in his chest was growing day by day, and was no longer tied directly to his proximity with his brother. He was happy feeling his brother's hand in his, but he was also happy hearing Cynthia's footsteps behind his. Because she was nice too. He was happy hearing the clack of smooth floor beneath his feet. Happy that his bare feet weren't _feeling _the floor. Happy that the floor wasn't rough cobblestone or pavement. Happy that all he could feel around him was warmth. That there was no biting cold at his cheeks or nose or toes or fingers.

He was happy. _So, so _happy.

"Stop right there, boys."

Matthew stopped immediately, while Alfred lurched forward, eager to move forward and discover their surprise. Matthew clenched his eyes shut, smiling in anticipation, while Alfred rocked back and forth on his heels. Cynthia swept ahead of them, and Matthew heard her grunt in exertion as she struggled with something in front of them, before he was hit suddenly with a rush of warm air.

He heard Al gasp beside him, and a tug on his hand as his brother pulled him towards the source. Unable to contain himself, Matthew peeked through his fingers, and dropped his hand completely as he stared before him in shock.

They were outside in the back gardens. A place he had been on occasion, under strict supervision so that he and his brother wouldn't get lost in the labyrinth of flowers and hedges. Now, the large open area that the house backed onto was adorned with tables, chairs, and decorations, the entirety of the Kirkland household outside.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

Alfred squealed in delight, while Matthew stood numbly, staring forward with his jaw hanging loose. Mr. Kirkland stood first and foremost. Not too busy. Not talking with associates. Not out on business. But there. _Right there. _Arthur beside him, each of them holding large, ornately wrapped boxes.

_Presents. _

Matthew had seen presents before. He'd seen them all the time in America. In the hands of the rich. Of the adults with warm clothes. Of the children with parents.

Never for himself. Never for Alfred.

_Happy Birthday? _

Matthew vaguely recalled Mr. Kirkland asking him and his brother when their birthday was. Neither of them had remembered -they barely remembered what a birthday _was- _but Alfred had exuberantly answered anyways.

_July 4th…._

Was that what today was? Already? That was the day Alfred had chosen for their birthday. Matthew remembered, because he had actually been a little upset about that. He would have liked to have his birthday on the first of July…not the fourth. That was Independence Day in America, right? He wanted his birthday to be special, to be for him…not a day that was already celebrated for a country…

But Alfred wanted July 4th, and Matthew wanted his brother to be happy. Because when Al was happy, so was he. It was as simple as that.

"Come on, Mattie! Look! Look! Presents! And look, there's chocolate on the tables! Oi, Artie! Whatcha got there?"

Matthew giggled and allowed his brother to pull him along.

_I'm happy…_thought Matthew, watching as his brother playfully pounced on Arthur, reaching for the present in the older boy's hands while Arthur smirked and half-heartedly fought him off.

Matthew smiled as Mr. Kirkland walked towards him. He giggled quietly as the man ruffled his hair, and allowed the gentleman to take his hand and lead him towards the large table in the center of the lawn, Alfred and Arthur following close behind.

_I'm so happy…_

/

**Urgh. Sorry for it being late. I was consumed with the desire to finish Chapter 13 before posting this. And I did! I'm pretty proud of myself, because I wrote the entire chapter in under a week. That's unheard of for me!**

**Also, Homestuck. Let's leave it at that. **

**Yeah. Dislike this chapter. Don't be fooled guys, I can't write happy things. It is extremely difficult for me. I have discovered that I excel at writing angst and psychological gobbledygook. So all these fluff chapters kind of killed me. XD **

**But they're almost at an end. 83 **

**Thanks so much for all your reviews guys! I find that my reviewers are seriously faithful, and you all review every chapter without fail. I'm a little sad that I don't seem to be pulling in many new readers, but I love you guys who have been with me and are sticking with me! **

**H3H3H3, next chapter gets the ball rolling... :3 **

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p**

**/**

Chapter 6: Matthew contemplates. Joey preaches. Matthew gains a new hobby. Arthur is suspicious. Alfred smiles. Arthur smiles too.


	6. Are you Hiding Secrets From Me?

_Chapter 6_

_"Are you hiding secrets from me? **Is there more to this life than I can see?" **_

-Pray Tell, **Anberlin**

**London, England- May, 1925 **

"But you understand, right, Mattie? I mean, it's not really your sorta thing."

The blonde boy shifted awkwardly on his feet, his gaze dropping to the ground momentarily before lifting to meet his brother's eyes. Matthew plastered a reassuring smile on his face and nodded at Alfred, who was staring at him sheepishly and with a somewhat uncertain air about him.

"Yes, I understand!" replied Mattie cheerfully, his gaze drifting back down to the ground as he rocked back and forth on his heels, "It's fine! Really! You and Arthur go have fun, okay?"

A grin spread across Alfred's face, and he ran forward, enveloping Mattie in a tight hug. Matthew melted immediately into the embrace, nuzzling his head against his brother's and pressing himself closer.

"Thanks a lot, Mattie!" cheered Alfred into Mattie's ear, before pulling back and turning away. Matthew stiffened again as the contact between them was lost, but relaxed and widened the smile on his face as Al looked over his shoulder and waved cheerfully.

"See ya later!" exclaimed the older twin, still waving as he opened the door to their shared bedroom and disappeared through it.

Matthew smiled and waved goodbye, watching as the door swung shut and clicked, blocking his brother from his view. Only when the sound of Alfred's loud and excited footsteps faded into the distance did Matthew allow his smile to fall and his entire frame to droop sadly. He turned away from the door, walking erratically around the room before making his way over to the bed, sinking onto it, and curling up.

"What makes you think it's not my sorta thing?" he murmured, picking up the large, stuffed polar bear sitting neatly against the pillows burying his face into its soft fur. "I like havin' fun too. I wanna go out."

The eight-year-old sighed, flopping down onto his back and turning onto his side whilst petting the head of his stuffed animal. He sniffled once and closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the soft bedspread.

It had been over three years since Matthew was an orphan, barely clinging to life on the streets of Manhattan. Three years since he'd been adopted by a surprisingly kind Englishman and brought back to London with his brother. Three years since he'd gained another brother, a boy three and a half years his senior with a prickly demeanor and a dislike of newcomers. Two years since he'd finally become comfortable enough with said boy to call him a brother.

Matthew and Alfred were eight now, the same age Arthur had been when they had first met him. To Matthew at that time, Arthur had seemed so much bigger than them. So much smarter than them. But now Matthew was eight, and he didn't feel any smarter. If anything, he felt stupider.

Was he stupid? Had he always been stupid? Mr. Kirkland thought he was well behaved. The maids thought he was 'sweet and darling'. His teachers always said he was extremely bright. Did extremely bright mean 'smart'? If so, they must have been lying. Or maybe, there were just different types of smart. Matthew could read and write very well. He was fairly good at Maths, and was almost as comprehensive at Geometry as Arthur was. He was definitely doing better than his brother in their lessons, and often had to help Alfred get through more difficult problems.

And yet, it was his interactions with his brother that were making him question his own intelligence.

Or was intelligence the right word? Would a better one be 'gullibility'? He wasn't sure if that even _was _a word, but he knew gullible was a word, and he knew what that meant.

Was he gullible? That's what he was beginning to wonder. Was he a gullible person? Was he gullible because he believed his brother every time he said "You can come next time, Mattie!" or "Next time, we'll do something you want to do, I promise!"

Was he gullible, or stupid, for believing his brother each and every time he said that?

Was he stupid for still clinging to the hope that his brother hadn't replaced him with Arthur?

Matthew uncurled himself and flopped onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling with a pout. Alfred and Arthur went out all the time. Arthur was twelve now, and too old to always stay cooped up in his house and away from people. He was the son of an important business figure and had to start making his way into society, in preparation for when he himself took over the company. As such, Mr. Kirkland had started taking Arthur out on the town with him. At the moment, he only took his son out for trivial things, such as going shopping for a new hat or cane, or to pick up artifacts from colleagues. Recently, Mr. Kirkland had invited Alfred and Matthew to tag along as well. Alfred had been excited, and had jumped at the chance to explore London with Arthur, but Matthew had been hesitant. He was still cripplingly shy, still had trouble finding his voice in front of strangers, and still suffered from the occasional panic attack. He hadn't wanted to go out into town, and he hadn't gone. Ever.

But Alfred had gone, and Alfred had continued to go, and Alfred had gone even when Mr. Kirkland didn't take them. Alfred asked to accompany the servants on their weekly trips into town, and Arthur went with him. The boys loved going out. They loved the exhilaration, and the masses of frightening people, and the thick air, and the rainy weather, and the scary alleyways.

Matthew was scared of going outside. Matthew was scared of London. But Matthew loved his brother, and he loved spending time with his brother, so one day, he had gathered up his courage and asked his brother if he could accompany himself and Arthur out into London. Alfred had stared at him blankly, a confused look on his face, before a sheepish smile upturned his lips and he laughed awkwardly.

"Well, Mattie…" Alfred had said somewhat nervously, rubbing the back of his head, "Y'know, this isn't really…there're gonna be lots of people out there, y'know? And y'know how you get around people."

"But you'll be with me, Al," Mattie had said with a smile, pricklings of unease stirring within him at the way his brother was acting, "So I'm sure I'll be alight."

Alfred had smiled at him nervously, laughing again while leaning over to ruffle his hair. "But Mattie, me and Arthur go out all the time! So we know where want to go, but if you go along, we'll have to go places we already been…An' stuff. An', well, it's awful easy to get lost, but folks'll think we're babies if we go holdin' hands. Me an' Arthur can keep up with Miss Josephine an' not get lost, but you, well, it'll be your first time, right? An' sides, there are an awful lot a people. An' some of them push you an' glare at you and stuff. An', well, you don't really wanna go, do you Mattie?"

Matthew's smile had fallen, his feet had begun to shuffle nervously, and he had gotten the feeling that there was something immensely wrong here.

"I-I guess not…" he had muttered, wringing his hands and dropping his gaze to the ground. "I-I do have some Maths questions…"

"Okay!" Al had chirped cheerfully, "But you can come next time, okay! Then maybe we'll go to a store that you'll like!"

That's what he had said.

But it had yet to happen.

Alfred and Arthur went out all the time. They went out without Matthew. Matthew wanted to go with them now. He wanted to spend time with Alfred. He wanted to spend time with Arthur. He wanted to come back laughing and happy, like Alfred and Arthur did every time they returned from their excursions. He wanted to come back with bags full of pretty toys and hats and scarves and all types of neat things. Alfred had brought back this stuffed polar bear for him…but he wanted to buy one himself. He wanted to have stories of the woman with the roses on the corner, or the friendly old man who slipped them pieces of candy when Mr. Kirkland wasn't looking. He wanted…he wanted…

"Master Arthur? Master Arthur, are you in there?"

Matthew gasped and sat up, clutching his polar bear close to him. He blinked blearily for a few seconds, before rubbing a hand across his eyes and yawning.

Had he fallen asleep? It felt like just a second ago that he had flopped down onto the bed…

_**KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. **_

Matthew jumped and let out a shrill squeak as the same thunderous knocking that had awakened him once again shook the doorframe. The young boy shivered and lifted his polar bear to hide his face behind it, sliding off of the bed cautiously.

"Young Master Arthur! I know you're in there! There's no place else you could be! Come out this instance!"

Matthew blinked in confusion and hesitantly walked towards the door. Why would Arthur be in here? If the three boys played together, they usually did it in Arthur's room, as it had a bit more space. But they hadn't done that in awhile. Arthur didn't seem to enjoy their games as much as he used to, and he and Alfred much preferred to go out into London then stay cooped up inside playing with wooden soldiers and toy trains.

A painful twinge shot through Matthew, and his bottom lip trembled as the loud knocking once again reverberated around the room. Clearly, this maid did not know that Arthur was out. And Alfred too. They had gone out with Mr. Kirkland today, on some meaningless errand that a servant probably could have done. But Mr. Kirkland seemed to enjoy these meaningless errands, particularly when he could take his sons along.

_But not me,_ thought Matthew, with a note of bitterness that surprised him, _never me._

"Master Arthur!"

"He's not here!" snapped Matthew, stalking forward and yanking the door open. "Arthur's not here!"

As soon as the door was open and the maid's eyes were on him, Matthew's brief burst of rage disappeared and he froze, feeling very vulnerable and awkward.

Cynthia blinked, her hand still held in the position it had been when she had been knocking thunderously on the door. Her mouth made a little 'o' shape, and her eyes looked wide and startled. Then they narrowed, angry again. Matthew immediately wilted, bringing his polar bear up to his face and cowering behind it.

"I-I'm sorry!" He stammered, backing up into the room, "I-I didn't mean to yell. I'm sorry. I'm sor-,"

"Young Master Matthew," said Cynthia firmly, interrupting the boy's frightened babble, "Where has Young Master Arthur gone? And, as he does not seem to be here, your brother as well?"

Matthew looked at the maid in surprise, lowering the polar bear to peek cautiously over the top of its head.

"Th-they went out, m-miss," he stuttered, surprise evident on both his face and in his voice. "F-Father K-Kirkland t-took them o-out into t-town…"

Cynthia's eyes widened, and her jaw dropped. The woman's eyes narrowed and she turned away furiously.

"Of all the nerve!" she huffed, "How dare he! I know he doesn't like discussing matters with his brother, but honestly. To conveniently 'go out' just to-," The maid stopped suddenly, looking down at Matthew with somewhat apprehensive eyes.

"I'll trust you not to repeat what I just said," she said dryly, with a hint of nervousness. Matthew stared back at her dumbly, confused beyond belief, and awaiting any kind of instruction or hint as to what was going on.

"In any case," continued Cynthia, turning away, "You'll need to come along despite the fact that both your father and your brothers are missing. _You_ are at least here, and I suppose that that is the best that we can achieve at the moment." Cynthia turned around completely, looking back over her shoulder and down at Matthew, who stared up at her with violet eyes narrow with confusion.

"Well, come on, we can't keep our guests waiting!" she said somewhat snappishly, turning on her heel and walking away, her skirts swishing behind her. Matthew blinked once, before biting his lip and hurrying after her. He really had no idea what was going on. All he could gather was that Cynthia was mad about something, they had guests, those guests were supposed to meet Father Kirkland and Arthur, and now they would have to meet Matthew instead.

Matthew's stomach twisted painfully and he faltered in his walk. Were they really expecting him to meet whatever individual had come to see Mr. Kirkland? Really? Did they not realize that this was Matthew, and not Alfred? Matthew, who froze up and usually lost his voice in front of strangers? Matthew, who was shy and uninteresting and not as friendly as his brother? Matthew, who, at age eight, was still carrying around a stuffed bear like a shield?

And just who was he being dragged to meet anyways? Surely Father Kirkland wouldn't have forgotten a meeting with an important business associate. Perhaps it was just the mailman, or the milkman, or some other unimportant person. Not someone who, if offended, could ruin Mr. Kirkland's business.

Matthew worried his lip, digging his fingers into the polar bear's fur as he struggled to keep up with Cynthia's long, striding steps. He tried to keep his mind off of who or whatever could possibly await him, and kept his gaze focused on the trail of Cynthia's skirt in front of him.

_It's probably nobody_…he thought, fighting to keep his breath steady as he felt the telltale signs of a panic attack creeping in. _It's nothing, it's nothing_. _They wouldn't want me for something important. It's nothing…_

"Wait here, Master Matthew."

Matthew looked up, blinking in surprise as he realized that somehow, they had arrived on the bottom floor and were standing in front of Mr. Kirkland's study. Cynthia gave him a stern look, which he quailed under, before knocking on the door. A gruff, accented voice bellowed from within, and Matthew shrank back. Apparently, whatever had been said had been an invitation, for Cynthia turned the handle of the door and stepped inside, shutting it close behind her.

Matthew stood still, hugging his bear with his eyes fixated on the door. He shuffled nervously for a few moments, eyes drifting down to the floor, to the ceiling, along the walls, and back again. It hadn't been more than two minutes before he was lost in his own thoughts. It was a special ability of his, to be able to stare into space and focus on absolutely nothing whilst getting lost within his mind. As such, he was so far adrift that he did not hear the telltale clicks of leather shoes on hardwood as someone approached him from behind.

"Hullo there. Ye must be m'new coz. Are ye Alfred, or Matthew?"

Matthew let out a shrill squeak and jumped, whirling around and backing up quickly, almost losing his footing as he stumbled away.

A boy had made his way to stand a few feet away from the eight-year-old. He had dark brown hair that had been brushed into something of a respectable hairstyle, but with one piece still sticking up. His eyes were dark, and hooded behind massive eyebrows. His skin was tanned, darker than any that Matthew had seen in either London or New York, and the white bandage that lay across his nose stood out against it.

Matthew swallowed nervously as the stranger advanced, an appraising look on his face, and his arms folded across his chest. The boy was tall. Taller than him. Taller than Arthur too. He was probably older than Arthur, which meant he was much older than Matthew.

"Oi, I asked you a question!" said the boy belligerently, moving closer and causing Matthew to back up against the door. "Which one are ye? Alfred or Matthew?"

The blood drained from Matthew's face, and his mouth hung open uselessly. His words had completely failed him, and he felt tears pricking in his eyes at the helplessness of his position. The other boy's eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward. It was just then that the door to the study opened, and Matthew tumbled backwards with a squeak. The young blonde thudded against something thick and firm and he jumped back, skidding across the floor and clutching his plush polar bear to his chest. He struggled to maintain his footing, but fell onto his bottom, his face buried into his polar bear's fur.

"...James, would this be one of the stray Americans that my brother took in?"

"…Yes. Matthew, are you alright?"

Matthew peeked his head up over that of his stuffed animal, body shaking as he sniffled and blinked back the tears blurring his vision.

James, his Father's young aide, was crouching in front of him with a half concerned, half exasperated expression. Beside him, was a tall, _very_ tall, man. A dark bowler hat was perched low on his brow, obscuring the top of his face from vision. His head, however, was inclined towards Matthew, and the young boy could feel the intensity of his stare even if he couldn't see it. Predictably, Matthew's head dipped down behind his polar bear once more, and he curled up, his knees shaking.

"What's wrong with him?" asked the dark-haired boy, a puzzled, irritated expression on his face. James sighed and ran a hand through his hair, standing up with a sheepish, frazzled expression on his face.

"He…he does that," he said with a sigh. "He's very shy and he's not very good with people. I'm sorry Mr. Sanders, Joseph. We should probably wait until Mr. Kirkland and the other boys get back. Matthew won't talk when he's like this."

The dark-haired boy scowled, his dark eyes flickering towards the quivering child on the floor, and back to James again, his arms folding across his chest.

"It's Joey, not Joseph," he said crossly, "And that's bothersome."

"Indeed it is," agreed Mr. Sanders, tapping his cane against the floor as he began to shuffle forward, past Matthew and down the hallway. "How unfortunate that my brother was so weak-hearted as to take in such a pitiful, unstable child. It will only drag him down in coming events. The last thing he needs is another liability, and a disgusting American one at that. A strong child, at least, could be an asset in the future. This Alfred child, as you've described him, James, could be useful, providing he calms down. If he doesn't, than I can only hope that my brother figures out his mistake and discards these rotten miscreants before they get him into trouble, or before certain…individuals identify the benefits of using them."

Matthew had looked up at this point, his watery violet eyes just peeking over the top of his polar bear's head, his fingers digging into the fur. He jumped as Mr. Sanders turned and tilted his hat up slightly. Dark eyes regarding him coldly.

"At the very least," he remarked, never taking his eyes off of Matthew. "I hope he gets rid of _this_ one."

And with that, Mr. Sanders turned around, his long black jacket billowing behind him as the rest of the company stood in stunned silence.

"James," he called over his shoulder, "Let us to the dining room. I wish to wait there for my brother's return. Joseph, come along. Leave that useless boy."

Joey cast another searching, skeptical look at Matthew, before turning on his heel and following after his Father. James swallowed thickly, giving the young blonde a sorrowful, apologetic glance before hurrying after the Australian man and his son.

Matthew sat in stunned silence, watching their retreating figures before they turned around a corner and were lost to him. Mr. Sanders's words reverberated within his head, and he felt hot tears pricking at the corner of his eyes.

"Matthew…"

Mattie stifled a sob and jumped up, avoiding Cynthia's comforting hand. He buried his face into his polar bear's fur, fleeing in the direction of his room.

_Pitiful…unstable…_

_Disgusting…._

_Mistake…._

_Useless…_

Matthew clenched his eyes shut, water gathering at the corners and beginning to stream down his face. As he ran, his feet caught on the edge of the hallway carpet and he tripped, his stuffed toy flying out of his arms and skidding across the floor. His face hit the ground painfully and he cried out, sitting up quickly and clutching his nose with one hand and his forehead with the other. He scooted back until he was pressed against the wall, whimpering with tears trickling down his cheeks.

Matthew was eight years old. He wasn't sure what pitiful meant, but he knew it wasn't good. He knew exactly what useless and mistake meant, and had an idea of what unstable had meant in the context it had been used. He wasn't dumb.

But he was so, so stupid.

It was painfully obvious to him now, so obvious. All those words, all those hateful terms that Mr. Sanders had cast at him, they were all reasons. They were all answers. Answers to why Alfred didn't want to spend time with him anymore. Answers to why Alfred and Arthur went out with each other, but not with him. The reasons…the reason was those hateful words.

Matthew was pitiful, unstable, disgusting, a mistake, useless…

The revelation crashed into him like some great wave. The blurring memories of his life in New York City suddenly surfacing in his brain. Memories of Alfred getting them food, Alfred stealing, Alfred finding them shelter, Alfred helping a limping, coughing Matthew down the road…

He was…useless.

Matthew curled up, burying his face into his knees as he sobbed openly. All of the frustration he had been feeling all day…all of several days, came boiling over, and he cried broken-heartedly. In that moment, Matthew had never been so convinced that everyone, Mr. Kirkland, Arthur, the maids, Alfred…everyone hated him. Everyone was tired of him, of his weakness, of his dependence on his brother. Mr. Sanders was probably right. Mr. Kirkland was going to realize he made a mistake. He was going to send Matthew and Alfred back to America. Or probably…he'd realize that it had been okay to adopt Alfred, but two children were too much and that he'd just return Matthew to America by himself…

Matthew cries grew louder as he imagined being separated from his brother. Being ripped away from Alfred was, without a doubt, the worst thing he could imagine happening to him. Whatever his brother might think of him, even if his brother secretly hated him, Matthew loved Alfred. Matthew needed Alfred. Without Alfred, Matthew was…

"Oi, American. You seriously cryin' again? Crikey."

Matthew's head jerked up, and he found himself staring directly up at the tanned complexion of Joseph, or Joey Sanders. The boy had a scowl on his face, and his arms were folded belligerently across his chest. With his irritated expression, he bore a startling resemblance to Arthur, right down to the way his thick eyebrows scrunched together.

Tears continued flowing down Matthew's cheeks and he dropped his head again, ignoring the boy and wrapping his arms around his knees.

"Hey! I'm talkin' to you!"

Matthew's sobbing was interrupted by a pained gasp as Joey grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him to his feet, slamming him against the wall roughly.

"What's your problem?" hissed the Australian, his accent thick and menacing. "All you've done since we've met is cry. Is that all you can do? You're like a little Sheila who's lost her dollie!"

Matthew whimpered, and his mouth fell open in a gasping motion. His sobs stuck in his throat, and he felt a familiar sense of panic rising up in his chest. Joey shook him roughly, and Matthew quailed under the harsh brown stare, so much like Mr. Sanders. He scrunched his eyes shut and clenched his fists, fighting to calm his breathing before he descended into a full-blown panic attack.

_Alfred…_he thought desperately, filling his mind with images of his brother. His brother with his hand stretched out towards him, his brother ruffling his hair, hugging him, holding him tight in those cold nights in New York…

_Alfred…_

_Alfred…_

"Alfred?"

Matthew's eyes shot open, and he stared at the Australian in shock, momentarily forgetting his sorrow and pain. Had he started calling for his brother out loud?

"Alfred's your brother right?" continued Joey, loosening, but not relinquishing his hold on Matthew's shoulder. "So, do you call for him whenever your trouble? Is that it?"

_Apparently so. _

"Is that why yer so weak?" asked Joey, his eyes narrowed, "Because you always call for your brother when you're in trouble?"

Matthew's eyes widened and he struggled in the older boy's grip.

"N-no!" he squeaked, painfully aware of the tears still wet on his cheeks. "I-I…."

Matthew trailed off, his mind drifting back to its thoughts moments before. It was true, wasn't it? He depended on Alfred. He was weak, Al was strong. He was useless, Alfred was…Alfred.

"See, I'm right," commented Joey with a bit of a smirk. Matthew's bottom lip quivered, and he closed his eyes again, turning his face away with a shuddering breath.

"Well then, this makes things a bit easier, doesn't it?" continued Joey, releasing his hold on Matthew's shoulder and setting the boy down on his feet roughly. Matthew's eyes fluttered open, and he lifted his head up towards the other boy, confusion on his face. Joey's harsh scowl had been replaced with an almost…friendly look. The Australian's belligerent position had shifted, and his entire atmosphere seemed to have changed.

"I-I don't understand," stammered Matthew, "I don't…"

"You heard m'Dad," interrupted Joey. "Yer kinda useless. I mean, you're a crybaby, an' you froze up in front of him. He's a harsh bloke, but he's also your uncle. Y'know? You didn't make the greatest first impression."

"Uncle?" repeated Matthew, a confused expression on his face. Joey gave him a look that suggested such a thing should have been obvious. "Yeah, uncle," he replied, "Me Mum's Mr. Kirkland's sister. So me Dad's his brother-in-law. Your uncle. Y'see how that works?"

Matthew eyes narrowed slightly, and he felt an unexpected thrill of anger at the patronizing tone that had crept into Joey's voice. "I'm not stupid," he said roughly, his voice still wavering and hoarse from his previous sobbing, "I understand."

The forcefulness in his tone surprised him and, evidently, it surprised Joey too, for the Australian's eyebrows shot up into his hairline, and he actually took a step back. The surprised look quickly faded and was replaced by a wide smile.

"See coz?" he said with a cheeky wink, "Ye don't need your bro to stand up for yourself. You did a fine job by yourself just now, didn't you?"

Matthew blinked in surprise and felt his cheeks colouring at the unexpected compliment. His gaze drifted towards the floor, and he shifted his feet nervously. Suddenly, Matthew felt a light pressure on his head, and he looked up with a surprised squeak. Joey had leaned over, and was leaning on his head, that same cheeky look on his face.

"Oi Matt," he said, not removing his hand from Matthew's head, "We're cousins now, that means I'm gonna look out for you, but Matt," Joey's darkened and his mouth downturned into its previous angry frown. "Coz, you gotta work with me here. I want to help you, so I'm gonna give you some advice. Things are going to start getting a bit hairy from here on in. I ain't gonna get into details since you're still so little, but there's a bit of a rough ride up ahead. The bottom line is, Mr. Kirkland, yer Daddy, is gonna need support. That's why Me Dad is so adamant about wanting you boys to be strong. He's worried for yer father. Matthew,"

Joey withdrew his hand, staring at the younger boy with a scrutinizing expression, "I get the feelin' yer stronger than ye look. You cry a lot, but ye must be made of some sort of tough stuff to survive living on the streets for five years. My advice to you is to stop depending on your brother, dry your tears, and man up. Alright?"

Matthew could only stare up at the older boy dumbly, his mouth hanging open as he met the Australian's gaze for the first time since they'd met.

"I-I don't know if I can do that," he whined, "I'm not…I'm not like my brother. I can't-,"

Joey lifted Matthew by the collar of his shirt and pulled the younger boy towards him, eyes narrowed. "If you think like that, of course not," he growled, the same scowl on his face. "But coz, you gotta stop thinking like that. You're not in America anymore. You're not an orphan anymore. You're Matthew Kirkland, technically an heir to the Kirkland Company. Soon to be a prominent member in England's society, if things go well. You gotta stop thinking like you're still an orphan. Alright?"

Matthew's face was pale with fear, and his knees shook underneath him as Joey placed him back on his feet. The Australian turned away, waving a hand over his shoulder as he walked down the hallway. Matthew watched, his mouth dry and open as he watched Joey walk down the hallway. After a few moments of his mouth flapping like a fish, he found his voice.

"Wait!" called out Matthew, taking a few steps after Joey, "Why are you doing this? Why are you…," Matthew trailed off and paused, biting worriedly at his bottom lip as he stood with his fists clenched at his sides.

Joey paused in his walk, looking over his shoulder with that cheeky smirk on his face.

"One reason would be that you're me coz…" he answered, tilting his head slightly, "But truthfully….I just like provin' me Father wrong."

And with that, Joey disappeared down the hallway, turning a corner and disappearing from Matthew's view.

Mattie's cheeks burned, and he stared at the now empty corridor. After a couple of minutes he turned slowly, walking in the other direction. He picked up his fallen polar bear as he went and began stroking its head as he continued towards his room.

_Matthew Kirkland…_he thought to himself, burying his face in the bear's comforting fur. _I'm a Kirkland too…like Father Kirkland, Arthur and Alfred…Maybe…._

Matthew lifted one hand and wiped the remaining tears from his cheeks and eyes, taking a shuddering, deep breath.

_Maybe I can be strong too. _

/

Matthew was looking for Joey.

The eight-year-old's somewhat harrowing encounter with the boy had taken place a few days previous and since then, he had been unable to stop thinking about the Australian's words.

"_You're not in America anymore. You're not an orphan anymore. You're Matthew Kirkland…You gotta stop thinking like you're still an orphan." _

Matthew's hands clenched into fists as he peeked around another corner, eyes narrowed with irritation as his search once again came up short.

The realization of his own uselessness had hit him hard and fast, like a harsh blow to the gut, and the feeling of utter helplessness that had followed. Remembering those sensations, those feelings, gave Matthew a wretched, sick feeling, deep in his stomach. He had only ever felt that helpless once: on the streets of New York. And even then, the stress and sensation had been alleviated by the presence of his brother.

But now, Matthew was determined not to depend on his brother Now, Matthew wanted to pull himself out of his slump by himself. It was a thought that had never occurred to him before. That maybe he didn't need his brother to always help him…

The thought caused him to wince, and another painful twinge to lance through his chest. He didn't want to imagine a world where he no longer had his brother at this side always. He wanted it to be that he could always count on his brother, could always be comforted by the fact that Alfred was right beside him. He didn't…he didn't want to be independent. As selfish as it was, he liked depending on Alfred, because that way he knew Alfred would always be there. Always be with him.

But then, came the heart-wrenching revelation that those days had long since past, and that Alfred now spent far more time with Arthur than with his twin.

Matthew swallowed thickly, and hastily wiped away the tears that had begun gathering in his eyes.

He had to stop, had to stop doing that. Had to stop crying every single time he thought of something that upset him. Every single time that he thought of Alfred leaving him….

How Alfred had already left him.

"Joseph!" he cried out, skidding to a stop as he ran into one of the many downstairs sitting rooms, where his Australian cousin was sitting languidly on a coach. Joseph looked up from the small piece of paper he'd been scribbling furiously on, and blinked his eyes in surprise.

"Oi…it's m'American coz," he said in slight confusion, "But mind y'self, it's Joey."

Matthew flushed, panting, and walked into the room, moving to sit on one of the couches, breathing heavily. After soliciting the Australian's location from a maid, he had run the length of several hallways to reach here. For Matthew, who rarely left the house and played primarily indoor games, this had been nothing short of a marathon and a great physical exertion.

"I-I've been l-looking for you!" panted Matthew, clutching his pant legs tightly as he directed gaze towards the ground. "I-I w-wanted to talk-,"

"Dammit coz, catch your breath before ye start talkin'. Ain't no use in you flapping your jaws at me if'n you keel over," interrupted Joey with a smirk.

Matthew did fall silent, but it was more from shock than anything else. In the four or so years that Matthew had been in London, he had been incredibly sheltered. He had rarely left the house, practically hid himself away when guests came over, and shied away completely from strangers. The servants in the house were all people who were painfully aware of status. James and Mr. Kirkland were both gentlemen.

In short, Matthew was extremely unused to foul language.

The single rude word that had fallen from Joey's mouth was enough to bring a flush of scandalized colour to Matthew's cheeks, and cause the young boy to fidget uncomfortably.

He knew that Joey was four years older than him, and a year older than Arthur. He had heard from Alfred –who loved retelling escapades of his wild adventures out in London- that people had extremely colorful language outside of the mansion. Though Mr. Kirkland had soundly cuffed him before he could demonstrate. Still, the single bout of cursing was enough to make Matthew wonder if he had made the correct the decision.

"Alright, coz, looks like you've got our breath back," commented Joey, interrupting Matthew's inner thoughts. "So tell me, what was it that brought you here? I haven't seen much of you the pass couple of days."

Matthew continued fidgeting and kept his gaze elsewhere. It was true; he'd mostly kept to himself the past few days. Mr. Sanders's words had shaken him immensely, and he had found himself incapable of looking anyone in the eye. When Mr. Kirkland, Alfred and Arthur had finally returned, the man had wanted to formally introduce the boys to their uncle and cousin, or in Arthur's case, reacquaint them. Alfred, of course, had jubilantly leapt forward and shook both Mr. Sanders's and Joey's hands, but Matthew had hung back, a crippling sense of fear hanging over him.

Mr. Kirkland had seemed disappointed in the fact that Matthew couldn't get over his shyness even to greet his uncle and cousin, and Matthew felt bad for that. But he couldn't get over Mr. Sander's words, and he couldn't bring himself to lift his gaze and see those dark eyes boring into him…

Alfred, Arthur, and perhaps Mr. Kirkland, were not aware of Matthew's previous meeting with their Australian relatives. They didn't know of the emotional and mental turmoil he was currently facing, and the young boy was torn on whether or not he wanted them to. On one hand, he really wanted comfort. He wanted them to tell him that he wasn't useless, he wasn't a mistake, and that they loved him and that they would always be a family.

But on the other hand, he really wanted to…try. He wanted to try and stand on his own. Move forward on his own. No longer depend on others. He had resisted the urge to cling to Alfred's side when the boy had announced to him that he was going out with Arthur and Mr. Kirkland again, this time with the addition of Mr. Sanders. Matthew had wanted to go. He wanted to be with his brother so badly, but the thought of being in the car with Mr. Sanders…And of course, he was still fixated on a world where he wasn't so dependent on his brother.

It was this world, this thought process, that had led him to Joey now.

Joey hadn't gone with the others. It seemed to Matthew that Joey disliked his father as much as Matthew did, though he was much more obvious about it, scowling whenever the man so much as looked at him. He seemed to like teasing Arthur, and probably would have gone for the sole purpose of doing that. However, Joey _didn't_ like getting hit on the head with his father's cane, and for that reason, he had opted to stay home.

"I-I," stammered Matthew, his mouth suddenly dry as Joey's eyes fixated on him. The dark orbs were very, very similar to his father's, the only difference being the hint of humour and amusement in their depths. The young boy swallowed, and he forced himself to keep his gaze away from the ground.

"Wh-what you said earlier…," he said, licking his lips and wishing he had a glass of water, or his stuffed bear. "I-I was thinking about i-it, a-and I-I-,"

"Coz," interrupted Joey, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his clasped hands. "British English is strange enough as it is. Do us a favour and stop makin' it more diff'cult to understand. Tell us whatcha want, and start your words with one consonant, not two. Okay? Thanks."

Matthew's bottom lip quivered and a choked sound emerged from his throat.

_Why am I here?_ He moaned internally, feeling tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. _He's so mean…Why did I think he could help me? He's scary…I don't want to be here…_

"Oh for the love of- _Crikey_ what a-Oi, Matthew!"

The young American lifted his head in surprise, his vision blurred by the emergence of tears. He wiped them away quickly and took a shaky breath, forcing himself to keep his gaze on his cousin. To his surprise, Joey stood up from his seat and walked towards Matthew, stopping directly in front of the younger boy. Matthew's gaze lowered immediately, and he began fidgeting again, wiping away the last trace of wetness on his face.

"Y-y-yes?" he forced himself to stammer out, his gaze fixated on the carpet.

"You wanna come out to the grounds and go shooting with me?"

Matthew's gaze once again jerked up towards Joey's face and for the first time, their gazes met and stayed connected. The deep, dark brown irises bore directly into his own, but unlike his Father's, Joey's were filled with warmth and mirth.

"Sh-shooting?" stammered Matthew, discovering with pleasant surprise that he was able to fight back the urge to look away, and continue looking Joey in the eye. "I-I don't know how to-,"

"Aw, that's fine. I'll teach ye," chuckled Joey with a smile. He tilted his head to the side, and offered his hand out with a smirk. "C'mon coz, you came here for help, right? Help on…well, how to not need help. But the first thing to do is stop staying cooped up in the house all by your lonesome when the others go out gallivanting across town. Going out for some fresh air never killed anyone. Honestly, I would know, I spend most of me time outside." The Australian grinned, and Matthew looked down at the offered hand with apprehension and some fear.

He wasn't completely sure what he was trying to accomplish here, and he didn't know if coming to Joey Sanders had been the right move. But he was tired of being useless. Tired of being helpless. Tired of being left behind.

"Okay," he said quietly, taking Joey's hand. Then, his gaze hardened and he stood up from the couch, once again lifting his gaze to meet Joey's.

"Alright," he said firmly, "Teach me how to shoot."

/

**London, England- October 1928**

"I hate the rain."

Arthur looked up from his book, casting his gaze towards the boy sitting on the couch across from him. Alfred was perched on the arm of the seat, leaning forward with his elbows resting on a windowsill and his chin resting on his fists, peering out at the heavy rain pounding outside.

"It's bothersome," agreed Arthur, adjusting the heavy book that sat on his lap, "But it's not that bad." Arthur found the rain quite relaxing actually. Especially when you were curled up in a warm house with a blanket around your feet and a good book to read.

"No," huffed Alfred, pressing his forehead against the glass, "It sucks. There's nothing to do!"

"You could do your lessons for once," snorted Arthur, regarding the other boy in amusement, "Instead of lollygagging your time away."

Alfred turned his head and scowled at his brother, pushing off from the window and slumping against the back of the couch. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and stretched his gangly legs out in front of him.

Alfred had grown a lot in the seven or so years since he had been adopted. All of his limbs seemed too long for his body, and his ankles were always visible beneath the hem of his pants, His dark blonde hair was brushed back, though with the same stubborn cowlick still sticking straight up. His face was still rounded with baby fat, though his skin was no longer as smooth and unblemished as it had once been.

"C'mon, Artie," pressed Alfred, "You can't honestly be happy sitting there reading that book for hours and hours and hours-,"

"There's nothing wrong with curling up with a good piece of literature," countered Arthur, half-heartedly glaring at his brother before turning his gaze to the window with a sigh. Alfred opened his mouth to retort, then frowned at the distant, somewhat melancholy look on his brother's face.

For the past few weeks, Arthur had been increasingly distracted. He spent most of his time staring pensively into space with his brow creased with thought and worry. The teen often holed himself up in his room, and whenever Alfred or Matthew managed to convince him to come out, he curled up with some hefty tome and completely shut out his surroundings.

Alfred was worried, really worried. What was occurring was far too similar to what had happened about two years ago, when Arthur had been thirteen. For practically the entire year, the British teen had been sullen, constantly angry, and had seemed to want absolutely nothing to do with Matthew and Alfred. It had been a troubling, annoying time, as Alfred had just gotten used to the idea of Arthur being his brother and close friend. He hadn't left the blonde alone. He had followed Arthur into his room, doggedly refused to leave when Arthur shouted at him for no reason, and sat close by when the older boy had descended into one of his sullen silences.

Eventually, Arthur's strange behavior had passed, and he had returned to his mostly irritable, somewhat grumpy self. There had been some differences. Arthur didn't really join in Matthew and Alfred's games anymore, and he spent more time by himself, or in his Father's study. But he was talking to them again, and that was what had mattered. And Arthur still enjoyed spending time with Alfred. They could still talk for hours and hours and run around outside and do some of their lessons together. They could still tell each other everything.

Like now. Arthur would tell him if there was something bothering him, right?

"Arthur," said Alfred, his voice surprisingly low and firm. Arthur's head turned back towards the younger boy, his eyes looking unfocused and lost. Alfred's heart sank. Something was bothering Arthur. Something that Arthur wasn't telling him.

"What's wrong with you?" blurted out Alfred, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. The haze over Arthur's eyes dissipated into surprise, and he sat up out of the slump to the side he'd been in. "There's nothing wrong with me!" he protested, eyes narrowed in irritation. "What are you talking about?"

"You've been acting weird for a fortnight!" huffed Alfred, folding his arms across his chest. "Whassa matter?"

"Nothing's the matter!" snapped Arthur, "Must you be so nosy? Leave me be!"

A twinge of pain shot through Alfred's chest, and a hurt look flashed across his face. The boy deflated for a second and guilt panged through Arthur. The anger faded out of the fifteen-year-old and he sighed.

"Look Alfred, I just have a lot on my mind. There's nothing wro-,"

"What's on your mind?" interrupted Alfred, perking up and leaning forward eagerly. Arthur's lips downturned in response, and he fought back a scowl.

"Th-that doesn't concern you," he stammered, turning away, "In any case, I was in the middle of quite an enthralling passage, so if you would allow me to return to my rea-,"

Arthur was caught off guard as Alfred bounced off of the couch, skipped across the room, and plopped himself down on the chair beside his older brother. Alfred slid over until he was pressed against Arthur, his blue eyes staring up at him intently. Arthur's cheeks coloured, and he pushed the other boy away.

"Wh-what are you doing?" stammered Arthur, scooting away from the twelve-year-old. His escape was halted when Alfred placed a hand on his shoulder and moved himself closer, sliding his hand down to grab onto Arthur's hand.

"H-hey! Let go you git!" blustered Arthur, attempting to tug his hand away.

"Hey, Artie," began Alfred, ignoring Arthur's protests and struggles, "I'm your brother, right?"

The question caught Arthur off guard, and he stopped struggling, staring at Alfred with confused eyes. "Of course," he affirmed, "We're brothers. Why are you asking?"

Alfred was silent for a few seconds, and his eyes dropped to the floor. There was an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face, and he was gnawing at his lip. Worry and confusion spread through Arthur and he dipped his head down to try and meet Alfred's eyes. "Alfred," he said, frowning, "Why are you asking?"

Alfred looked up suddenly and Arthur pulled back, the frown still on his face.

"Because brothers tell each other everything," said Alfred quietly, "They are always there for each other. They trust each other. Am I your brother, Arthur?"

Arthur froze and immediately leaned forward, clasping Alfred's hand.

"Of course!" he exclaimed, then quieted, "You're my brother, Alfred…and…a-and my best friend,"

Alfred gave a small grin, "Of course I am," he agreed with a laugh, "Your bestest friend."

"Bestest isn't a word," muttered Arthur, "Honestly, why is your English still so atrocious?"

Alfred gave a mock pout and cuffed Arthur lightly. "Don't change the subject, Artie. What's bothering you?"

This time Arthur pouted, but the expression faded from his face almost immediately, and he ran a hand through his hair with a sigh.

"I-it's my Father," he said after minute or so of silence, "He…something odd is going. Has been going on for awhile. For years. I don't…I don't think it's something favourable."

Confusion marked Alfred's face and Arthur sighed again. "Never mind. You wouldn't understand."

Alfred bristled in irritation. "I understand! I just don' recall Father doing anything weird!"

Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. "That's because you're as oblivious as oblivious can be. And besides, it's not something you would notice. It pertains mostly to his business."

Alfred blinked and tilted his head to the side. "His business?"

Arthur nodded and sank back into the chair, biting at his lip. "Yes. The Kirkland Company. A toy company, that's what it is. A company that makes all manner of toys for all manner of children and…and…it's just a toy company!" A note of desperation had crept into Arthur's voice, and Alfred automatically shifted closer to him, staring at the other boy with concern. "Artie…" he began hesitantly.

Arthur shook his head, and swallowed thickly. "I…I have reason to believe that my Father's means of income come from more than just the toy company," he said quietly, "Or rather, I have reason to believe that the Kirkland company is much more than just a toy company."

"More than…a toy company?" repeated Alfred hesitantly. Arthur nodded, his entire face creased with worry and pain. "Alfred I…I love my Father dearly. I really do. But...I…he…I…believe he may be participating in some unlawful activities…"

"WHAT?" exclaimed Alfred, bolting up in his seat, "Whaddya mean? Like, he's doin' stuff that's illeg-,"

"Shhh!" hushed Arthur, clapping a hand over Alfred's mouth. "Don't just shout out those types of accusations!"

"What accusations! You said-,"

"I know what I said," hissed Arthur. The young man then deflated, pulling back. "I…Alfred, you can't repeat what I'm about to say to anyone, alright?"

Alfred's scowl faded, and he sat up straighter. The boy licked his lips nervously and nodded. Arthur sighed and rubbed circles on his forehead. "I…I was in my Father's my office. I've been reading up on his business papers and such, because I'm of the age to begin preparing for when I take over the business, though Heaven knows I can think of a thousand better things to do with my life then manufacture toys for infants-,"

"Artieee," whined Alfred, fidgeting, "Please don't ramble."

Arthur froze, before chuckling nervously and once again running a hand through his hair. "God Alfred, this is ridiculous. I don't know why I've been having these thoughts. He's my Father for crying out loud! I should trust him! I shouldn't be accusing-,"

"Artiiiiiiieeeee,"

"I'm sorry," sighed Arthur, his head falling into his hands, "I'm sorry." The British adolescent cleared his throat, before clutching his pant legs and narrowing his eyes.

"I was shifting through some documents on his desk when a folder fell out of a pile. Its contents spilled on the floor, so of course, I picked them up. As I was retrieving them I couldn't help but notice a word or two on the paper…"

Arthur took a shuddering breath, before rubbing a hand across his face and continuing.

"They were letters, letters to Father, about deals, trades, transactions…weapons, Alfred. It was about the ordering and distribution of weapons. Places to pick up shipments, places to drop off shipments, new orders coming in from China of all places…"

Arthur shook his head ruefully, "It was mind-boggling. I-I thought it must be some kind of joke. The weapons they were discussing in these letters are illegal, Alfred. For Father to be involved in that sort of business…

"And what's more, there was a letter requesting to meet with Father directly. A letter from some fellow in China who wished to discuss a deeper collaboration…"

Arthur swallowed thickly. "I was willing to pass the entire thing off as a prank. Perhaps the letters were fabricated, perhaps Father was writing an adventure novel, perhaps the weapons they were discussing were codenames for new toy designs, designs that my Father didn't want his competition discovering…."

The blonde began biting at his lip, rubbing his hands together and fidgeting everywhere. "But a few weeks ago, Father left for China. He's gone to Hong Kong…just like the letter asked. He said he was meeting a business associate, that he was hoping to set up a branch in Hong Kong to expand the company further, but Alfred, what if it really is true? What if Father is truly part of…the underground trade? What if he is participating in some illegal business and all our affluence is the result of-,"

Arthur's words and breath were cut off sharply as two strong arms wrapped around him, tugging him into a narrow chest and hugging him tight. Alfred clutched the older boy to him, pressing his cheek to Arthur's and rubbing his back comfortingly.

"Artie, you worry too much," said Alfred confidently, withdrawing and taking Arthur's hands in his own. "Father is…well, he's Father. He wouldn't do anything bad! I'm sure it's a misunderstanding! When he gets back, you can ask him about it! Stop worrying!" Alfred grinned, and Arthur continued looking melancholy for a few moments, before sighing and giving the younger boy a rueful smile. Alfred let out a delighted laugh and hopped away, bouncing off the couch and towards the door.

"Come on, Artie! We've been cooped up in here for long enough! I bet Mattie's done doing…whatever he was doing. We can all do something together!"

"I believe he was practicing shooting in the rain," muttered Arthur, sliding off the couch slowly. Matthew never seemed to be around much. When the three of them had been younger, the soft-spoken boy had always preferred to stay home when Arthur and Alfred went out, and after a time, it created a rift between them. Alfred hadn't seemed to notice, and when he saw Mattie he tackled him and snuggled with him and proclaimed himself as his 'awesome' big brother. But Alfred spent far more time with Arthur than with his biological brother, and Matthew seemed to spend most of his time reading in his room or outside, practicing shooting with one of the groundsmen. It had surprised the entire household when Matthew had shown an interest in guns after going out shooting with their cousin Joseph, and surprised them even more when he had continued to pursue the hobby. Arthur had seen Matthew shoot a few times, and he was an excellent shot for his age, though the kick-back from the gun still gave him problems. The point remained, however, that Matthew was very distant from Arthur and Alfred, and the elder always felt a twinge of guilt when he realized how much he and Alfred had excluded the boy. But what had happened had happened. Matthew was now used to isolation, and seemed perfectly content with spending most of his time by himself, except for the moments where Alfred popped out of nowhere and dragged him into some ridiculous scheme. This generally only occurred when Arthur was busy. With lessons, his Father's business, or otherwise. Arthur didn't think Alfred even realized what he did to his brother, or the rift that had developed in their relationship. Matthew certainly did, but Alfred seemed to see the world through a permanent lens of optimism.

Which was why it was so easy for him to dismiss Arthur's fear and immediately decide that Mr. Kirkland was innocent of any and all crimes. A childish hope. Only a child could have cheerfully ignored all the evidence. And that's what Alfred was, a child. He was twelve, and Arthur was fifteen. Their age gap seemed to become more and more apparent as the years went by, and Arthur couldn't help but wonder how much longer their great friendship would last.

"Let's go, go, go!" Arthur was jerked out of his thoughts as Alfred grabbed onto his hand and began tugging him towards the door. "Alright, alright, I'm coming!" he growled, while a smile crept unbidden onto his lips.

Yes, Alfred was young. Yes, he was childish and didn't seem capable of seeing the world for what it was. But his ceaseless optimism was invigorating, his constant smile was like sunshine, a light in the constant London rain, and his innocent and rose-coloured view of the world was a lovely change from Arthur's own pessimistic vision.

And really, Arthur would much prefer it if Alfred was right. He desperately wanted Alfred to be right. He wanted it to be a misunderstanding. He wanted his Father to be innocent.

_What's wrong with having a child's view of the world?_ He thought to himself as Alfred tugged him out the door and down the hallway. _This world needs more light…more of this type of thinking…more kindness and hope…_

Arthur smiled at the boy in front of him, and let out a happy little laugh.

_This world needs more Alfred…_

**November, 1928 **

"Master Arthur! Master Alfred! Master Matthew!""

Arthur, Alfred, and Matthew simultaneously looked up from what they had been doing. A game of cards inside a sitting room as rain once again thudded against the windows and pounded heavily on the roof. The door to the room had just banged open, and a red-eyed, wild-haired Cynthia now stood in the doorway.

"Miss Cynthia?" said Arthur in alarm, taking in the maid's disheveled appearance, "What's wrong?"

Tears streamed down the woman's face as she held out her trembling hand, a piece of paper dangling from it.

The three boys stared at it, and Alfred and Matthew exchanged a look before simultaneously turning towards Arthur. The elder boy swallowed thickly, and stood up from the chair, walking towards where Cynthia stood, shaking.

Arthur had a horrible, horrible feeling in his stomach. An oppressive air had suddenly descended upon everything, and Arthur had the overwhelming urge to vomit.

_Why are you panicking, Arthur?_ He chastised internally. _It's just a piece of paper. A measly piece of paper. Perhaps something has happened to her sister or mother or great-aunt or…_

Arthur paused in front of the woman, catching the paper as it fell from her trembling fingers. He smoothed out the wrinkles and creases, before holding the paper in front of his face, eyes narrowed as he scanned it.

Then, his eyes widened.

Then, his mouth opened.

Then, the paper fell out of his hands and fluttered to the ground.

"Arthur?" said Alfred worriedly, hopping off the couch and hurrying to his brother's side. "What's wrong? What is it?" Matthew slowly crept off the couch, making his way to Arthur's other side and gently placing a hand on the boy's arm. "Is it something bad?" he whispered, eyes flickering down to where the paper had fallen.

Arthur's mouth continued to hang open, until, after a few seconds, he swallowed thickly. "I-It was a telegram," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "From China."

"From China?" repeated Alfred, perking up immediately. "From Father? What's it say? Is he coming home?"

Arthur shook his head slowly, his entire body trembling. Matthew's stomach dropped and all the blood drained from his face. "Arthur," he said softly, his own voice beginning to tremble. "Has something happened to Father?"

Arthur stood silently for a few tense minutes, before finally, he opened his mouth. "He-," began the boy, before a choked sound emerged from his throat. He swallowed thickly before clenching his eyes shut, tears snaking their way out from under his eyelids.

"There was an accident," he whispered hoarsely, "A car accident, in Hong Kong."

Arthur opened his eyes, staring at Matthew, who was clutching his left hand, face pale as a ghost, and Alfred who was clutching his right hand with confusion written all over him. Arthur closed his eyes again.

"Father is dead."

**/**

_**And thus did the authoress soundly and justly kick the happy and the fluff out the proverbial window. Gleefully did she watch them hit the sidewalk, bounce, and roll into oncoming traffic. **_

**Long chapter is long. So _long. _But at least we're finally done with the brotherly fluff. For the most part anyways. Thank _goodness. _**

**Also, _how do I Australian accent _I can't even_. _**

**Thank you guys so much for all the reviews! Thanks for sticking with me through these mind numbingly fluffy chapters. Things begin to slowly but surely speed up from here. **

**Hope you guys continue to review! ^_^ This update was 2 and a half weeks because five reviews and because I felt like it. **

**Shit finally starts getting real next chapter. Because Asia. :3 **

**Oh wait. Does this count as ending on a cliffhanger? Whoops. **

**/**

Chapter 7: A different set of brothers, with a different set of rules, and an entirely different world.


	7. And you Have your Choices

_Chapter 7_

_"And you have your choices, **and these are what make man great. His ladder to the stars."  
><strong>_-Timshel, **Mumford & Sons**

**Shanghai, China- January, 2011**

The business world truly was an exceptionally boring place.

Yao leafed through the thick folder on his desk, flipping the pages with his fingers. His face was a mask of utter boredom, and he fidgeted in his chair as he skimmed over document after inane document.

Figures, figures, costs, stocks, shares, trades, etc. etc. etc. It was always the same thing after boring thing. Yao sighed and leaned his cheek on his fist as his eyes roamed over a report, internalizing the information with a single quick sweep.

He had thought that emerging from the shadows instead of retreating back into them would have eliminated the threat of tedium. Stopped him from having to crouch and wait like a rat. Avoided the boredom of staying still. The boredom of not being in a competition, of not using his wits to manipulate and challenge others.

When the war between himself and England had 'ended' (or rather, been called to a mutual armistice), there had been a moment where Yao had had no idea what to do with himself. How to spend his time, where to cast his gaze now that his biggest obstacle was indisposed. What to do with his vast cunning and ruthless followers now that there was no Englishman to crush.

The idea of…coming out, so to speak, was one that had intrigued him. His sudden plan of revealing himself instead of retreating back into the darkness had been one that no one else had quite understood. The reason the ongoing feud between himself and England was being called to a close was because they had been compromised. Because their eternal existence and murderous affairs had been discovered and almost made public. The threat to both families had overshadowed any threat they posed to one another and a ceasefire of sorts had been called so that they would no longer draw attention to themselves.

England had withdrawn completely. China's actions had left his company in tatters anyways, and the threat of exposure had made it necessary for him to completely retract from Russia, which had been his only chance to regain what he had lost.

Yao had won.

That round at least.

But England's retreat into the shadows had left China with a rather large dilemma. Boredom. All of a sudden, the feud that had been taking place for almost seventy years had hit a ceasefire and there was nothing for Yao to do but twiddle his fingers.

The idea had hit him when he had been contemplating how there was nothing left that he could do to oppose England. He had control over the underground throughout Asia and through most of Russia. With England in hiding, he could attempt to expand into Western Europe. But Western Europe wasn't on his schedule for another decade or two, and Yao was really picky about keeping things on schedule. He hated disorder, because disorder bred imperfection in work. And all of Yao's plans had to be perfect.

Then an idea had hit him. He wanted to oppose England. He loved doing that more than anything else. So why not oppose England by doing…the opposite of him?

Arthur Kirkland and the Kirkland Company were fading into the shadows. Why didn't Wang Yao step out into the light?

The idea had intrigued him, not just because of the opposition to England, but because it was something new and exciting. He had never, in his long life, been in the light before. He had always operated from the shadows. Always been in the darkness. He'd been raised in the Yakuza and raised others the same way. He'd been a manipulative cut-throat pretty much from birth and had dominated underground organization after underground organization. But never once had he stepped out into the light. Even when he had played around with politics in Post World War II Europe, he'd always been behind the scenes. The puppeteer behind the curtain. Never revealing himself.

Quite frankly, he had always preferred it that way. You could get so much more done in the shadows than you could in the light. But the opportunity to step out from behind the curtain, to do something completely opposite to England, to hide himself by revealing himself…the idea had been too delicious to pass up.

The Russians were looking for an underground shady business, a Chinese mafia of sorts. They were looking for underhanded dealings and subterfuge. They were _not _looking for a respectable Chinese company that just happened to buy out some businesses in Russia.

Taking over a company was different from taking over underground organizations, like he was accustomed to, and it had been surprisingly fun. It had been something new, something exciting. He'd been amused by all the posturing, bigotry and blatant lies in the business world. Yao should have learned from his dealings with Arthur, but the similarities between the 'respectable' world and his own life in the shadows were so numerous he often couldn't help but laugh.

Yes, the entire thing had been quite fun at first. New things always are. But fifteen or so years later, Yao was getting somewhat tired of the somewhat repetitious office routine. He longed to visit Kiku, who was currently running the underground portion of their business. Or perhaps Vietnam, though he knew she wouldn't appreciate the intrusion into her regime.

More than anything else however, he wanted England. He wasn't satisfied with how things ended between them. The man was a constant irritation, a thorn in his side that wouldn't go away, but Yao wasn't content with him having just disappeared. If their war was going to end, it was going to end with Arthur Kirkland on his knees, begging for mercy with all of his accursed family tortured and maimed around him and his glorious empire in tatters at his feet.

The empire was already in tatters. But England and his family had scattered. Yao had heard nothing from them in ten years.

But then, he had.

England, foolish, foolish England, had stepped out of the shadows. Attempted to resurrect his fallen company, and succeeded to an extent. Yao had watched with amusement. The company was still so weak, so feeble. It would be almost too easy to knock it back down. Either the new, respectable business way, or the old-fashioned way. Sabotage. It wouldn't take much out of his Hello Kitty fund to plant a bomb in a factory or two.

But he hadn't. He'd let Arthur be. Kiku had pressed it. He hadn't wanted Yao to do anything to compromise his current 'business' image. Wang Yao was now a well-known name and a well-known face. However, this wouldn't last much longer. Changing his hairstyle and his suits wouldn't be enough to continue accounting for his lack of aging. He could blame it on his Asian health for another year or two perhaps, but then he would have to make Wang Yao disappear.

And that would be when he'd strike.

Or, at least, that had been his original plan.

But then came the news of Arthur Kirkland, that impertinent little upstart, moving into Russia already. When his company was just barely getting up off the ground…The sheer gall of it made his laugh. To use some of the slang floating around this new decade, Arthur had balls.

It had appeared that England had deemed fifteen years as long enough of an armistice and was ready to play again. And China was ready for him. His underground roots were still strong. His presence in the business world was growing and he practically owned the entire Eastern Hemisphere. England's control over the Western World had crumbled and disappeared. He'd have to work hard to build it back up again and China would have destroyed him before it could have happened. But it seemed England wasn't wasting any time rebuilding his former empire. He was going straight for the man who had taken it from him. For China.

And that suited Yao just fine. It was unexpected and it might cause the game to end earlier than he had hoped, but it was still amusing, and still certain to be fun.

Because he now had the opportunity to crush England once and for all.

**Tokyo, Japan- February 1925**

"Congratulations, Yao-nii."

Yao turned as he heard the greeting come from behind him. His crisp, black and white hakama swirled slightly and the high, traditional ponytail whipped through the air. He smiled widely as he saw Kiku and the Japanese boy smiled back in response before bowing to his friend. Yao returned the bow, the smile never leaving his face as he straightened.

"_Arigatou_, Kiku-kun," he replied with a slight smirk, regarding his 'younger brother' in a fond manner, "I couldn't have done it without you."

Kiku's cheeks flushed and he looked down modestly. "N-no," he stammered, "That is not true. It is due to the hard work you put into our family. That is why you have been given such a large honour." Yao gave Kiku a strange look and then smiled darkly.

It was true. Yao had accomplished a ridiculous amount in his short time in the family. The boy was smart and creative and his methods of getting what he- or what the family- needed were both terrifying and ingenious. Whether it was using his innocent looks to deceive people into letting their guard down, or using complex and devious plans to suck people into a web that they couldn't escape from. Several wealthy families in the area were now indebted to the Honda family due to Yao's manipulation and trickery. The number of bribes and benefits that had to be handed out in order to keep people in the area quiet was lessening, as families and people began paying them instead to keep themselves and their secrets safe.

"Blackmail, aru," Yao had explained when Kiku had asked him about it, "Why should we pay them to keep the police out of our business? They're the ones benefiting. With us in the area, there is less of a likelihood of petty crime and random murders. What's more, we bring wealth. They are more deadweight than anything, and all their money comes from the businesses that we control. I don't know what those old men were thinking, aru, not to have realized this sooner. With the amount of control we have, we could bankrupt those rich idiots at anytime. And with the amount of people we have, we could make any one of their family members 'disappear' at any moment." The Chinese youth had then smiled and given Kiku a knowing look. "This is how the Italians do it, aru. And they've done pretty well by it thus far. As idiotic as they may seem, you can learn a lot from Westerners. You can learn a lot from anyone, aru. Providing you know what to look for. Remember that."

And Kiku had.

Kiku remembered everything that Yao told him, even the strange things. The things he didn't agree with. The things he didn't understand. He remembered them all because to him, Yao was always some strange and exotic creature. An all-knowing deity, much like the gods and spirits in the old stories. He seemed filled with boundless wisdom and his ascent in the Honda family at such a young age never seemed less than mystical. And everything he said seemed to have some deeper meaning. Some life lesson that Kiku would need to internalize in order to fit into Yao's strange and complex world. Lessons. His life was full of them. From the moment he met Yao onwards.

"_Kiku, I know you don't think you have any need to learn how to fight at the moment. I know you're still a child. But should this place be attacked, do you think anyone's going to spare the son of the Wakagashira just because he's a child? And what's more, don't you think you'll be that much more powerful in the future if you start now? Dig the well before you are thirsty, Kiku. You'll benefit more from it in the end." _

"_Just because you're upset that I scolded you, doesn't mean you had any right to lash out at me like that. In the future remember that if you are patient in one moment of anger you will escape a hundred days of sorrow. Also, I'm stronger than you, aru." _

"_I don't care if you think it's difficult. I want you to do what I just did, aru. Kung Fu is complicated, but it isn't. Just do it. I can't simply tell you what to do. You hear and you forget, you see and you remember, you do and you understand." _

"_You've internalized everything that everyone around you has said, aru. You believe the adults around you unconditionally and intend to follow their way of life completely. And Kiku, that is the stupidest thing you could ever do. A wise man makes his own decisions, an ignorant man follows the public opinion. Especially when the public consists of stuffy and stupid old men, aru." _

"_Don't make that face, aru. Mandarin is very similar to Japanese, in a way. If I learned Japanese, you can learn Mandarin. Besides, the sooner you learn Mandarin the more time you'll have on English. But you'll learn neither if you don't start. The journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step." _

"_I know you dislike the changes I've brought to your life, but trust me you'll appreciate it in the end. You were heading down a very singular path. The exact same path as your father. Don't you want to do more, aru? See more? Be more? You won't be if you keep trying to match your footsteps directly into your Father's. If we do not change our direction, we are likely to end where we are headed. And you don't want to go where you're headed. Trust me, it's too boring a life for you. You'll be much better off with me." _

The past three years had been an interesting and hectic time for Kiku. Wang Yao was nothing sort of a whirlwind of wonder and knowledge. Kiku had learned more in that time than he had in all the years before. He had begun learning Kung Fu and some swordplay, as well as Mandarin. When he was ten his Father had instructors begin teaching him Karate, and while Kiku found learning two different style confusing, Yao saw it as an amazing opportunity for Kiku to make a unique fighting style and pushed him harder. Yao was always pushing Kiku harder and the younger boy honestly didn't know the purpose in it. Yao was successful all on his own. He was powerful and knowledgeable and capable of almost anything it seemed. So why did he spend so much time on Kiku? It had never made sense.

And now, Yao had progressed even further. Had taken yet another huge step forward. At the young age of thirteen, he'd been given control of his own faction of the Yakuza.

"It is a large honour indeed," agreed Yao, still looking at Kiku oddly, "But, my work had very little to do with it, aru. I could plant a seed in every square inch of your father's garden, and I would not advance any further in rank. You see," Yao's smirk deepened and Kiku felt a slight chill at the dark look in the boy's amber eyes.

"It is all who you are planting the seeds for."

Kiku's eyebrows creased in confusion, but the feeling was soon replaced by discomfort and embarrassment as Yao grabbed his hand tightly and began leading him out to the courtyard, laughing. Kiku's cheeks flushed and he protested feebly, extremely cognizant of the disapproving looks they were receiving from some of the adults in the area.

Wang Yao…he seemed to thrive on physical contact. He was always, always, touching Kiku. Instead of just showing Kiku how to draw the characters, he had to guide Kiku's hand through the stroke order. When Yao began teaching Kiku Kung Fu, he always corrected Kiku by moving his limbs. Instead of just telling Kiku the proper stance to take, he would always take it upon himself to Kiku's arms, legs, and any other part of his body into the correct position. And whenever they went anywhere together, Yao would always insist on taking Kiku's hand. Like he was doing now.

And it always made Kiku very uncomfortable.

"A-ah! Y-yao-san_,_ _onegai_-,"

"Oh hush, Kiku! This is a happy time, right? Be happy with me, _aru_!"

A smile bloomed unbidden on Kiku's face at Yao's jovial tone of voice and he relaxed, allowing himself to be led across the courtyard and to a section of property mostly hidden behind the vast house.

"Yao-san, should you really have left? Everyone is inside for you," commented Kiku as the two boys slowed to a brisk walk.

"That may be, _aru_," replied Yao, still holding tight to his adoptive brother's hand, "But that does not mean _I _have to remain inside for everyone. In fact, I'd rather not. I'd much prefer being out here with you,"

A blush dusted Kiku's cheeks as Yao turned his head and gave him a wide smile, and he smiled tentatively back.

Despite his strange ways, his incessant need for contact, the strict way in which he instructed Kiku, and his slight know-it-all tendencies, Kiku had become quite fond of Wang Yao. He still felt strongly that Yao was a completely separate creature from him, one that went above and beyond what a normal human child should be, but he really…liked him. Not just because of all his lessons and all the help he gave. But because he was nice, and funny, and interesting to listen to. And because he spoke with Kiku, and did not just bow and say, "_Kon'nichi wa, Bocchan_," like everyone else did. He didn't just peer at him through squinty eyes, ask how his lessons were going, tell him to stay out of the way, and dismiss him like his father did. He spoke with Kiku, and listened to Kiku, and was always there for Kiku.

Despite the otherwordly-ness that Yao possessed, Kiku truly considered him be his big brother.

"See Kiku-kun? Isn't this much nicer then being inside with all of those stuffy adults?" asked Yao as he pulled Kiku into the shade of some _sakura_ trees, all-growing closely together in some lonely corner of the courtyard.

"Hai, this is nice," agreed Kiku, admiring the way the branches of the tree crossed together and reached up into the sky. Even when their limbs were bare, the sakura trees were beautiful. Kiku stopped, tilting his head further back and squinting his eyes against the brightness of the sky, still shining with light even as the sun began its descent. Wisps of clouds streaked across it, died dark orange and red, with a soft wind dispelling and twisting them. The branches of the sakura trees stretched upwards, dark and vibrant against the backdrop of the sky, still majestic and beautiful despite the bareness of their limbs.

"Kiku-kun?"

Kiku's head snapped down and his eyes blinked owlishly. His vision blurred for a second before returning to normal and he rubbed the back of his arm across his eyes. Blinking again, he lifted his head and stared across to where Yao's voice had come from. The older boy stood a few feet away, leaning against one of the trees with his arms folded across his chest. His eyes were directed towards Kiku and narrowed, looking surprisingly flinty, like chips of amber. Kiku froze as he met Yao's gaze and a chill swept down his spine.

"Yao-nii?" he began tentatively, swallowing thickly, "Is…is something the matter?" Yao continued staring at Kiku for a few more seconds, during which the Japanese boy felt his breath catch in his throat and a thrill of fear sweep through him. Was Yao upset with him? Had he done something? Should he bow until his head was at his knees and apologize-

"Nothing is the matter, aru," replied Yao, ending the tense silence with a secretive smile. "I was merely deep in thought. As were you, staring out into space as you were."

Kiku's cheeks flushed and he lowered his head in embarrassment. One of Yao's life lessons was to always be on the alert, and to never let your guard down or become unaware of your surroundings. By allowing himself to be so enamored by the tree and the sky, Kiku had closed off his other senses and become distant from what was taking place around him. Yao must have noticed, as he always did, and was now upset with him.

"_Gomenasai!_" apologized Kiku, tilting his body forward into a bow. Yao smiled wanly. "You recognized your own mistake, _aru_," he said, eyes flickering with that odd golden light, "That's nothing to apologize for."

With that, Yao let out a little sigh and slid down to the snow-dusted ground, unmindful of the way his hakama bunched underneath him or the cold seeping into his bottom. Kiku's eyes narrowed in confusion and then widened. Yao currently had an expression on his face that Kiku had never seen before. His brow was creased with worry and concentration and he was gnawing at his bottom lip. His hands clung tightly to the bunched up cloth hanging loosely from his legs and his gaze was down, eyes tight and pensive.

Kiku was paralyzed. He'd never seen Yao in such a…worried state. The boy always seemed so sure of himself, so confident in everything he did. It was something that contributed to the supernatural persona Kiku had of him. But now, Kiku was getting a glimpse of Yao that he had never before been offered. A glimpse of Yao with worry etched into his face. A glimpse of Yao showing real, human emotion.

Yao shifted slightly, pressing his lips into a thin line and leaning further back against the tree. The movement snapped Kiku out of his revelry, and the eleven-year-old hurried over to where his big brother sat, his large shoes flip-flopping against the ground as he went. Yao didn't look up and Kiku stood hesitantly beside him for a few awkward seconds before slowly lowering himself down into a kneeling position.

"Yao-nii?" he began hesitantly, tilting his head down to try and meet his brother's gaze. "Yao-nii, are you alright?"

There was silence and then, slowly, Yao lifted his head and met Kiku's eyes with his own. The normally cunning and knowledgeable gold-brown orbs were narrowed and awash with something unidentifiable. His whole face seemed unhappy, and his posture was stiff and tense.

"Kiku..." began Yao in a low voice, keeping his eyes matched to Kiku's, "I…I am faced with a dilemma, _aru._ A number of dilemmas actually, but one particularly pressing one."

Kiku's own brow creased n confusion and he struggled to continue to hold Yao's gaze.

Nii-san had a problem? But wasn't his specialty solving problems? Coming up with ideas and plans? Was there one that was stumping him? It didn't seem likely as Yao was well, Yao. But it did seem like he was...was he asking Kiku for advice?

All these thoughts ran through Kiku's head and the boy swallowed once before continuing to sit in silence. Not so much from Yao's teachings as from his own experience, Kiku had learned that in situations where you didn't know exactly what was going on or what was expected of you, it was best to simply refrain from speaking and observe.

The silence stretched for a few more uncomfortable seconds with neither boy breaking the other's gaze. Suddenly, Yao jerked forward, scurrying until his nose was a hairsbreadth from Kiku's. The Japanese boy's eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat, his vision suddenly filled with pools of gold-brown and the feeling of Yao's breath on his lips. Kiku couldn't move, couldn't breathe. His entire body was frozen and all he could see were Yao's eyes and all he could feel was the other boy's body so close to his.

Yao was the only one who ever got this close to Kiku. And even in their sparring, this was the closest he'd ever gotten without moving after a moment. It was a direct invasion of Kiku's much coveted personal space bubble and the Japanese boy was having trouble focusing on anything else.

"Kiku," said Yao softly, not moving back or relinquishing his gaze, "What would you say if I told you…"

Kiku forced himself to push back his own discomfort and pay attention to Yao's words. It was clear that something was bothering his _niisan_ and as a dutiful and honourable younger brother, Kiku would have to help Yao the way Yao had always-

"…that I was scared, _aru_?"

Kiku blinked, and then blinked again. His face contorted into an expression of confusion and then shock.

Yao. Wang Yao. Fearless, intelligent, charismatic, cunning, and all-powerful Wang Yao. His _oniisan _who seemed to know everything about the world and the people in it.

_Was scared? _

Kiku was paralyzed once more and before he could gather his thoughts and muster a reply, Yao spoke again.

"I'm scared, _aru_," continued the Chinese boy, his eyes finally drifting away from Kiku's, "Because everything is going so well."

Kiku's brow furrowed, and his paralysis and shock gave way to confusion. That wasn't the correct reason for having fear. In fact, it seemed to be the exact opposite of something that you would be afraid of.

"Yao-nii…" began Kiku hesitantly, taking the moment to shift backwards and finally put some much needed distance between himself and the other boy, "I don't understand…"

Something flickered in Yao's eyes and he gave a tight smile. "No…I don't make much sense, do I?" he chuckled darkly, sitting back on his feet. "I'm strange…a strange boy. I always have been. Tell me Kiku, what kind of five-year-old sells his newly-deceased _yeye's_ jewelry for passage on a ship to Japan? What kind of five year old even realizes that Japan's a better place to be than China in present times? What kind of six-year-old picks up Kung Fu in a back alley from a discarded and denied old man who'd rather screw him than teach him? What kind of eight-year-old gives a Yakuza gang information on a trap by a rival group in order to gain entrance and protection? What kind of child moves quickly through the ranks of a deeply hierarchical and corrupted family? What kind of child understands enough to do that? What kind of thirteen-year-old gains control of their own faction of the Yakuza?" Yao finished his rant with a shout, breathing heavily as he sat with his eyes boring intensely into Kiku's.

The Japanese boy was stunned. He'd never, in the three years that he had known him, seen Yao lose his composure. Nor had he ever seen…a human side to Yao. When Kiku had first met the Chinese boy, he had wondered some of the same things that Yao had just asked. How could a child of ten be so prominent? So powerful? So knowledgeable? But in the way that children tend to, Kiku had just come to accept it. It was just the way Yao was. He was not a normal child. He was more than that. Beyond that. He was something far superior and mystical than a normal human being. He was Yao.

"The kind of child that is Wang Yao," answered Kiku, his voice strong and clear, "That is the kind of child that does all these things. The kind of child that is more than a child, more than a person. The child that will grow to be more than a man. Wang Yao. That is you, Nii-san."

Yao stared at Kiku, a genuinely shocked expression on his face. Kiku felt heat rise in his cheeks and he finally broke the other boy's gaze, dropping his eyes down to stare at the ground. Had he really just said that out loud? What happened to keeping his opinions to himself and refraining from speaking?

"Kiku-kun…"

Kiku swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before forcing himself to look up. Yao's eyes were still on him, but they weren't filled with worry and pensiveness, as they had been moments before. Now, once again, they were deep and knowledgeable and filled with cunning and unreadable thoughts and flickers of amusement in their depths. Kiku almost breathed a sigh of relief, feeling his entire body relax at the sight of his brother back to normal.

"Thank you," continued Yao, dipping his head in a slight bow, "Thank you for your kind words, Kiku-kun. They truly mean a lot to me. Thank you."

Kiku's cheeks burned a brighter red and he returned the bow, once again lowering his eyes. "I-it was nothing Yao-nii. You are my brother," he stammered, feeling warmth swell in his chest from the abundant thanks. He lifted his head and once again matched his eyes with the older boy's. "But I am wondering," he began tentatively, his eyes searching but wary, "What exactly caused-,"

"It's beautiful out, isn't it, _aru_?" said Yao sharply, cutting off Kiku's statement, "A nice day. It will be an early spring, don't you think?" His eyes had that flinty look in them again as he stared at his younger brother, the look on his face just daring Kiku to say something. As it were, the abrupt interruption and the blatant changing of subjects had somewhat stunned Kiku into not replying, and the Japanese boy sat blankly, not saying a word.

_Yao-nii doesn't want to say what brought that about_…he thought, quailing under the harsh look his brother's eyes had once again taken, _I suppose it upsets him…_

Kiku was both disturbed and intrigued by this new human side to the brother he had previously seen as nothing short of a mystical creature, but he didn't want to pry, nor did he wish to make Yao uncomfortable. To be honest, the entire matter was making _him_ uncomfortable. Seeing a vulnerable side of the unshakeable rock in his life was disquieting and there was a large part of Kiku that just wanted to put the entire event behind them.

"…_Hai_," said Kiku, nodding his head slightly, "I too believe that it will be an early spring."

Yao smiled widely at the answer and the last vestiges of tenseness and worry disappeared from his body.

"Indeed, _aru_!" he chirped cheerfully, "Perhaps these trees will be lined with blossoms before the month is over."

Kiku smiled dutifully, willing himself to do as Yao clearly wanted him to and forget the entire first half of their conversation.

"I hope so," continued Yao, pouting and leaning one cheek on the palm of his hand, "If they bloom to late I might miss them, _aru_."

This statement startled Kiku and he stared at his brother in surprise and confusion. "I don't understand," he said, tilting his head to the side, "Why might you miss them?"

Yao smiled and his eyes twinkled with an excited light that Kiku had come to recognize as the light that came when something exceptionally good or beneficial happened. Now he was _really_ curious.

"You see, _aru_," began Yao, once again moving forward and leaning his body towards Kiku, "My promotion came with a job of sorts. An excursion. Quite frankly, I think the _Oyabun_ just wants to show me off." He grinned and let out a short laugh. Kiku squirmed uncomfortably and attempted to shift backwards without making it too obvious. "Yao-nii, please tell me what's going on," he muttered, beginning to feel the slightest bit of irritation.

Yao laughed again and then smirked, making it clear that he had noticed Kiku's retreat by moving forward again. The younger boy flushed and didn't even bother trying to conceal the way he scurried backwards.

"What's happening," said Yao, watching Kiku's backwards retreat be halted by a tree with amusement, "Is that I'm going to Korea."

Kiku blinked, pushing aside his escape as he stared at his older brother without comprehension.

"Korea?" he repeated.

"Korea," concurred Yao. "The _Oyabun_ has a meeting with some of his benefactors there. They, in the fashion of old, lazy rich men, do not wish to come here to meet us. And as they are rich and beneficial to our family's dealings in Korea, the _Oyabun _is going to meet them."

Yao smiled and scurried forward, scooting over so that he was sitting beside Kiku, their sides touching. Kiku didn't move, both because he was still trapped by the tree and because he was hanging onto Yao's words.

"There are a number of reasons I could be being asked along," continued Yao, staring pensively into space, "I'm interested to see what exactly it is that he wants me to do. I'm sure it's something fun, _aru._"

Yao grinned, a slightly manic grin, and Kiku felt a chill run down his spine. He pushed the momentary feeling aside and smiled up at his brother.

"Congratulations Yao-nii," he said, dipping his head in a slight bow, "When are you leaving?"

"We are leaving soon, _aru_," replied Yao, "By early March. And Kiku, don't think I'm leaving you here. The trip to Korea will take far too long, and I don't know how long I'll be there. I can't have you missing out on so much training time. I'll come back and you'll have completely forgotten Mandarin, _aru_! No, no, you're definitely coming with me."

Kiku's mouth went dry and it hung open limply, the Japanese boy blinking owlishly as he tried to digest his brother's words.

"C-coming with you?" he stammered, face devoid of all previous colour, "I…what?"

Yao smirked, apparently amused by Kiku's reaction, "Exactly as I said, _aru_. I hinted at that around some important people, and they'll be sure to address the matter with the _Oyabun_. Your Father won't have much to say about it either way and if the _Oyabun_ says it, then it shall come to pass." The smirk fell to a darker look, though the boy's lips still twisted upwards into a smile.

"I want you with me, _aru._ You're my beloved little brother. You're coming with me to Korea, regardless of what anyone decides."

Before Kiku could truly process the words or be spooked by them, Yao was grinning widely again.

"Say, Kiku," began Yao, looking at his brother with contemplative eyes, "What you said about me being more than human and becoming more than a mere man…"

Kiku flushed and looked down. "Th-that….that is…I…."

"I like it," interrupted Yao, staring up into the sky with an intense look in his eyes, "I like it very much_, aru_. Wang Yao…more than human. If I'm more than human, why should I remain content with a human name?" The thirteen-year-old tilted his head to the side. "Something representing more than mere humanity. Knowledge, eternity, more than human, and yet, human."

He stared up at the sky for a few more long minutes. Beside him, Kiku fidgeted uncomfortably, feeling as if the conversation had taken a strange and uncomfortable turn. He hadn't really thought about what he had said to Yao earlier, just that he didn't like seeing Yao upset and that he had never really seen Yao as a 'normal' child. But it seemed that the other had read far into his words…

"Kiku-kun," said Yao finally after an extended silence, "What do you think about calling me China?"

**Gyeongseong, Korea- April 1925 **

It was dirty.

That was the primary opinion that Kiku had of Korea.

The streets were dirty, the buildings were dirty, the people were dirty…

He didn't like it.

The dirtiest thing of all, however, had to be the looks he was getting. Walking down the street with Yao, his long coat billowing behind him and his too-large western-style pants dragging in the filth of the street, all Kiku could feel were the dagger-like glares of the people he was passing by.

Not all of them. The numerous Japanese military men or nobles that he passed all nodded politely as he walked and some of the women gave him small smiles, which he returned. But the locals, the Koreans, all glared at him. The street was a busy one, filled with businessmen and people rushing here and there, but it was also filled with the poor, the dirty people that came underfoot and spat at him. Spat at him because they wouldn't dare do that to a member of the military or a noble for fear of repercussions. But here he was, a young Japanese boy with no guard or protection in sight save for a Chinese teenager who didn't seem to be paying anything much attention. He was a prime target for the hate of these beaten down people.

Quite frankly, Kiku was disgusted with the whole situation. It had been fifteen years since Japan had annexed Korea and still there was such disrespect? The large military presence didn't seem to have done anything to crush the rebellious spirit of the Koreans. Kiku had been there for only a fortnight, and already he had seemed at least ten riots break out in the city. They had been minor and had been completely crushed, but the fact that they had started in the first place upset him. Why couldn't they just accept defeat? It's not like their country truly had anything to offer. They should content and happy to be part of the Japanese empire and serve their glorious emperor.

Kiku stopped abruptly and recoiled as a glob of spit landed at his feet, spray landing on his bare toes. He hissed in displeasure and stared in anger in the direction the projectile had come from.

Not to far from him sat an old woman. Her hair was scraggly and hang loose around her shoulders and her still open mouth was missing teeth. She glared at Kiku for a few seconds before launching into a stream of Korean curses.

Kiku found himself shrinking back and hurrying forward to catch up with Yao.

He really hated Korea.

What was more was that Yao had seemed extremely distant since they had come here. He hadn't paid Kiku much attention, other than continuing his brief Mandarin lessons at the end of the day and sporadically attacking him to check his reaction time and skills. Other than that, Yao spent each and every day locked up in a room with the _Oyabun,_ his officials, and whatever person they were meeting with that day. They were staying in the house of one such benefactor, and while the house was large and spacious, it wasn't as nice as the Honda home and after only a few days Kiku found himself becoming homesick. It didn't help that he spent most of every day stuck in a room by himself, practicing Mandarin or going through Karate, Kung Fu, and swordplay. Kiku was getting quite good at the sword, and he longed to try out a real katana, rather than the dull practice swords that he was forced to use now. He'd hoped that Yao would think he was good enough to advance him…but Yao had practically been too busy to spare him a glance…

Except for today. Today, there was a break in negotiations and Yao had offered to show Kiku around Gyeongseong, the capital of Korea. The Chinese boy had gone on several excursions himself, as their hosts had shown him and their entire party around, but Kiku had yet to experience the city.

And now, he was wishing it had stayed that way.

Kiku winced as a young man wearing ratty clothes began yelling at him as he passed by. He looked forward to where Yao walked before him, hoping that his big brother would turn around, defend him, do something, but Yao continued to walk forward seemingly oblivious to his dank surroundings and to Kiku's plight.

The Japanese boy felt stirrings of anger begin to churn in his belly. Why had Yao brought him here if he was just going to ignore him? What was the purpose? Why did he have to endure being spat, cursed, and yelled at while Yao walked with his head in the clouds, breaking his own rule of vigilance?

Kiku's lips pressed into a hard line and his hands clenched into fists as he hurried after his brother, squaring his shoulders and ignoring the angry shouts of the young man.

_Just ignore him, just ignore him…c_hanted Kiku in his head. _There's nothing to be afraid of, they're just jealous because they're inferior and are too stupid to see how wonderful it is to be part of our glorious empire…_

As if he had heard Kiku's thoughts, the young man suddenly leapt to his feet and charged at him. Kiku whirled around immediately, eyes wide and his hear pounding as he saw a heavy stick being raised over him…

Suddenly, the man doubled over, dropping the stick and clutching his stomach. A foot crashed into the side of his face and he flew backwards.

"Filth," spat Yao, lowering his leg to the ground and glaring at the man, "_Kkojora!"_

Kiku stared at his brother in surprise and wonder. So Yao had been paying attention? And had he just spoken Korean?

The boy's attention was diverted as there was a collective shout from the Japanese populace in the area and a horde of men, both military and otherwise, leapt at Kiku's attacker. The last thing Kiku saw was the man's expression morph into one of horror and fear before he disappeared under flying fists and thrusting boots. The neighbouring Koreans shouted in protest and began attempting to pull the men off and fight. They were easily swatted away and beaten down, most of them being old or women. The majority of the young men had been carted off to work camps years before.

Kiku felt a churning in his stomach at the sight of the people being so thoroughly and viciously being beaten down, but at the same time he felt as if justice was being served. Now, maybe they would finally realize that it was pointless to resist. Pointless to spit on some random Japanese passerby. They were beaten and always would be. It was time the Koreans accepted it.

"You could have fought him off."

Kiku blinked, ripped from his thoughts as Yao's voice came from beside him. He tore his eyes away from the one-sided scuffle in the street and brought his eyes up to meet his Chinese brother's. Yao's eyes had a look of disapproval in them and Kiku started in surprise.

"P-pardon?" stammered Kiku, surprised by the displeased look Yao was giving him. What had he done? Yao was talking to him for what felt like the first time all day and it was because he was upset with him?

"That man," replied Yao, "You froze when he jumped at you, but you could have fought him off. Or do you think you're learning Kung Fu and Karate for fun, _aru_?"

Kiku wilted under the stern tone and displeased tone that Yao's voice had taken and he lowered his gaze. It was true. He'd been learning Kung Fu for three years and Karate for one. He knew enough to disable a man, let alone defend himself from some wretched vagabond's clumsy attack. It was shameful that he had frozen and not fended off the man himself, instead relying on Yao to do it for him.

"_Gomennasai_," he said lowly, shuffling his feet and hunching in on himself. He hated messing up like this. He wanted so much to be as amazing as Yao was at everything. He wanted to rise up through the ranks of the Yakuza and surpass even his Father, as Yao said he would be able to if he worked hard. He wanted to be at Yao's side as the boy ascended through the ranks, not be left behind because he wasn't strong enough and made foolish mistakes.

"Don't apologize," said Yao sharply, "Just correct your mistake. Apologies mean nothing if you don't learn from the experience."

Kiku swallowed thickly and nodded, "Yes, Niisan." His eyes once again fell to the ground and he remained still and silent. An uncomfortably tight feeling was in his chest and there was an odd stinging behind his eyes. Why was he so upset? Yes Yao had been ignoring him. Yes, just when Yao had begun paying attention to him again he had displeased him. Yes, he was in a country that seemed to hate him out of petty spite, but that was no excuse for…

Kiku heard a sigh from above him and he raised his gaze slightly, only to see Yao's hand traveling towards him at a fast speed. His eyes widened and then scrunched shut in anticipation. He should have contained his troublesome emotions better, now Yao was going to hi-

Kiku's thoughts fizzled out and his eyes flew open as Yao's arm wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him into his chest. The other arm wrapped around the other side as Yao squeezed Kiku tightly. The younger boy was completely limp, not comprehending what was going on. Was this some sort of sumo hold? Was Yao trying to constrict him as a form of punishment? Kiku's thoughts were a confused whirlwind as he stood with his body pressed against Yao's and his head resting on the older boy's shoulder.

"I apologize Kiku," said Yao softly, surprising the other boy, "I forget that you're still young, and not warped and strange like me. I'm not always the best _niisan_, am I? I'm sorry, I'll try and do better."

It was then Kiku realized that Yao was hugging him. And apologizing. Both of them shocking in their own right. The boy was so flabbergasted that he couldn't think of anything to say, or anything to do other than stay limp in his brother's arms. The closeness was beginning to get to him though and his discomfort was steadily rising. The situation was rectified when Yao suddenly relinquished his hold and pushed Kiku the side roughly, rushing forward as he did.

The Japanese boy struggled to keep his balance, his arms wind milling frantically, but he collapsed onto his bottom, a disgruntled look on his face as he angrily turned towards his brother.

Kiku blinked.

Yao was currently standing with an amused look on his face. In his hand was a young Korean boy, held aloft by the collar of his dirty and too-big hanbok. The boy was struggling wildly, limbs flailing as he attempted to wriggle out of Yao's hold.

"_Struggling will get you nowhere, little thief,"_ said Yao, amusement clear in his voice, "_Didn't expect me to turn around so quickly did you?"_

Kiku stood up, eyes narrowed in confusion. He wasn't sure exactly what had happened, or where the child had come from, or what Yao was saying. He had spoken in Korean, a language that Kiku did not know a single word of. After all, they were supposed to speak Japanese in Korea now, nothing else.

This little boy apparently didn't know that.

"_Stupid invaders!"_ hissed the boy, still struggling wildly, "_Just go back to your own country already! Get out of ours!" _

Yao's amused expression never faded and his grip on the boy tightened. _"You seem to have mistaken me for a Japanese, which I'm not, though I do live in Japan. However, you can't have more than six years. What do you know about invasion? The annexation occurred before you were born." _

The boy scowled and threw a short-reaching punch. _"I still know what's going on! You came and took what wasn't yours!"_

Yao pursed his lips, eyes losing their amused light. _"You don't listen do you? I told you I'm not Japanese. Or do you not even know who it is that's invaded you_?"

The boy faltered for a moment before scowling heavily. _"I know it was the Japanese. Stupid slanted-eyes shark-eating bowl-heads. I just didn't know there were people not Korean or Japanese," _he answered, eyes burning. Then, the intense look in his eyes faded, if begrudgingly, and was replaced by a more questioning, curious look. _"What are you?"_

Yao suppressed the urge to laugh at the sudden shift in the boy's disposition and his childish ignorance. "I'm-," Yao froze, eyes twinkling with some sudden thought. A smile twisted his lips upwards and he turned his head to the side to give a still-confused Kiku a sly look. He then returned his gaze to the boy still dangling from his hand and said, with absolute conviction, _"I'm China, aru." _

"_China?"_ repeated the boy. _"I've heard of China. Japan is mean to China too. Wait, isn't China a country?" _

Yao smiled slyly, shrugging, _"Maybe. That doesn't change the fact that I am China, aru."_

The boy seemed to be considering the information, no longer struggling or yelling wildly. He shifted his dark brown eyes away from Yao and peered over the boy's shoulder to where Kiku was standing in silent confusion. As their eyes met both boys frowned simultaneously and the Korean boy quickly returned his gaze to Yao.

"_Is he Japan?"_ asked the boy, the frown turning into a deep scowl. Actual surprise lit up Yao's face and he turned around to look at Kiku. The Japanese boy shifted uncomfortably and shot a glare at the Korean, clearly recognizing that something had been said about him, before sending a questioning gaze to Yao.

"What is he saying?" he asked, becoming increasingly irritated. Yao didn't say anything, still looking contemplatively at his younger brother. Without replying, he turned back towards the captive boy in his hand with a small smile on his face.

"_Yes,"_ he affirmed, nodding his head slightly, _"He is Japan." _

The boy made a displeased noise and folded his arms across his chest. _"Why is China with Japan? Japan is mean to China like Japan is mean to Korea. Japan is mean to everyone. I hate Japan."_

"_Japan and China are brothers,"_ answered Yao,_ "And always will be, despite their arguments."_

The boy pouted, but seemed to accept the answer, giving Kiku another glare over Yao's shoulder before once again matching his eyes to the Chinese boy's. _"And Korea is also China's brother?"_

Yao was startled again. He really hadn't expected these kinds of questions when he had told the boy that he was China. He had just…been testing the name out. But he was amused all the same, and actually enjoying the conversation. Even if he felt the slightest prickles of regret at talking in front of Kiku in a language he didn't understand.

"_Yes, I suppose Korea is also China's brother. And Japan's too. All of Asia is a family,"_ answered Yao, wondering how long the strange conversation would continue. The boy, skinny as he was, was pretty heavy to be holding up with one hand.

At Yao's answer, the Korean made a face, huffing indignantly. _"I don't want to be Japan's brother!"_ he shouted, waving his arms about frantically, _"Japan is mean."_

Yao raised an eyebrow, _"I don't recall saying anything about you being Japan's brother." _

"_Yes you did,"_ countered the boy, "_You said Korea is Japan's brother too. I'm Korea." _

For the third time in five minutes, Yao was genuinely surprised. Now that was something he really didn't expect to hear. Unceremoniously, Yao dropped the Korean boy to the ground. The boy stumbled a bit as he landed, but then looked up, smiling as he stood in front of the shocked Chinese youth.

"_What makes you think you are Korea?"_ growled Yao, folding his arms across his chest.

"_What makes you think you're China?"_ shot back the youth, a cocky grin on his face. Yao's eyes narrowed and the boy let out a short laugh. Kiku stepped forward, clearly not liking that the little Korean seemed to be laughing at them.

"_Don't mock your elders,"_ snapped Yao, "_What's your name?"_ The boy clapped his hands together, eyes twinkling merrily. _"My name is Korea! Which is a country, but also me! I don't like Japan and my brother is China. I am Korea!"_ The boy then turned towards Kiku, hands clenched into fists at his side and his gaze burning.

"_You are Japan!"_ he shouted loudly, pointing a finger at the Japanese boy, whose eyes narrowed in anger, _"And one day, I'll kick you out of here! I'll beat you, and you won't hurt us ever again! I am Korea and one day I'll be stronger than you!" _

Kiku's normally impassive face morphed into an expression of anger and he began moving threateningly towards the little boy.

"I don't know what you just said," he growled, "But I'll not have some dirty little Korean speak badly of me or point his finger at me rudely," Fear flickered in the boy's eyes, but he didn't retreat as Kiku advanced towards him, eyes thunderous and expression dark.

"_Matte,_ Kiku-kun."

Kiku stopped and stared at Yao in confusion as the Chinese boy stepped between the Japanese one and the Korean.

"Korea, hm?" he mused aloud, crouching down so that he was at eye-level with the young boy, "I'm not sure you fully understand what that name entails."

Both 'Korea' and Kiku wore matching expressions of confusion. Kiku, because he wasn't sure exactly what Yao was talking about, and 'Korea' because Yao had switched to Japanese.

"I…understand…," said the young boy with great difficulty, "Country…uh…_responsibility,_" he huffed, switching to Korean as he gave up on exercising what little Japanese he knew.

Kiku felt a small amount of satisfaction at hearing the little Korean speaking Japanese. After all, that was what all the Koreans should be speaking. They were just too stubborn to submit to it.

Yao also seemed pleased that the boy knew some Japanese, smiling widely at him.

"_Don't speak Japanese anymore,"_ commanded the little boy grumpily _"It's how the bowlheads speak when they kick me. I don't like it."_

"_But you'll learn it anyway,"_ said Yao cheerfully, _"Along with Mandarin and English." _

Not giving the boy a chance to respond to his comment, Yao stood up and turned back towards Kiku.

"We're leaving now!" he said loudly, "Let's head back to the estate."

Kiku suppressed a sigh of relief and nodded, shooting another glare at the impertinent Korean boy as he did.

_Koreans…_he thought to himself, turning away from the boy and beginning to walk forward with a triumphant smirk on his face. _Let them stew in this dirty city. Rude little boys like him won't last long. _

"_Leaving?"_ repeated 'Korea', staring up at Yao with a somewhat upset expression on his face. _"You're going now, China?" _

Yao felt a thrill go through him at being addressed by his other name and he smiled down at the boy.

"_I am. I have no more reason to stay here in the street. Surely you don't want to continue squatting in filth, Korea. Don't you want to become strong enough to surpass Japan? He's stronger than you, so you'll have to work hard." _

Korea blinked, and then smiled. _"Korea is going with China?"_

Yao held out his hand towards the child, who took it enthusiastically. Kiku, who had stopped and turned to see what was taking Yao so long, stared at the proceedings with an expression of utter shock.

"Let's go Korea, Japan. Follow big brother China!" chirped Yao cheerfully, skipping forward to grab Kiku's hand as he pulled Korea along behind him.

"Wh-what?" stammered the Japanese youth, "Y-Yao-nii, you're not making any sense…"

"_China-hyung!"_ cheered Korea, running to keep up with the older boys' long strides. _"I'll work hard to surpass Japan! I'll be the best little brother ever!" _

Yao smiled to himself, ignoring the strange looks he was getting from passerbys.

_This…_he thought to himself happily, pulling along his newly-named brothers.

_I believe this is the start of a powerful new family…_

**/**

**Lol, you guys really wanted your Asia. XDD So here it is! To be honest, I'm worried it won't be as awesome as you're hoping...but I like this chapter, so I hope you do to!**

**I hope you guys are all paying attention to the dates! We're not continuing from where last chapter left off, but going back a few years to cover what's being going down in Asia. Back and forth timeline guys. XD**

**Also, I thought I'd mention, the first direct confrontation between England and China is still a bit down the line. Neither of them are quite in a position yet to be waging war with another teenager half way around the world. XD**

**I always found how cuddly China was to be a little odd. Aren't East Asians supposed to be all 'hands off'? Aha, anyways, Yao's just kind of crazy and his touchy-feeliness is a mixture of finding amusement in how freaked out Kiku gets and actually enjoying getting close to him.**

**Oh, and here's your first real glimpse of Dark!Japan. Imperialistic and supremacist. :/ Really hope I'm not treading on any toes with this, but yeah, there's going to be some serious animosity between him and Korea. **

**Do tell me your thoughts on this chapter! :3 We'll be sticking with Asia for the chapter 8 and 9 as well. X3**

**Oh yeah! And I posted a oneshot. It's for the Hetalia Valentine's exchange on LJ. X3 The pairing is England/Fem!China, which is a little odd I guess but meh. **

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p **

**/ **

Chapter 8: Just how far are you willing to go for me? How much would you do just because I asked you to? What if I asked you to do something bad? What if I asked you to kill someone?


	8. Play the game, you know you can't quit

Chapter 8

_"Play the game, you know you can't quit until it's won**. Soldier on, only you can do what must be done."** _

-St. Elmo's Fire, **John Parr**

**Tokyo, Japan- February, 1922 **

The boy had the eyes of a prideful old man.

Deep set and narrow, looking both fiercely proud and stunningly intelligent. The strange gold-brown colour just added to the allure, a shade not quite amber that flickered and shone in the dim light. The look in his eyes contrasted sharply with the rest of his face, which was still lightly rounded with baby fat, though the boy was skinny and angled everywhere else. His kimono was ragged, dirty, torn, and far too big for him. His diminutive figure seemed that much smaller lost in the swathes of cloth.

Despite that, the boy's posture was very military and formal. Straight back, chin up, eyes forward, arms at his side. He had bowed when he had entered the room, but had not lowered himself to the floor, nor had he knelt on the mats when he had finished introducing himself. Instead he stood, feet shoulder-width apart, with his unusual eyes trained on the man before him.

From anyone else he would have taken it as a blatant show of disrespect and probably had his finger cut off in retribution. But he had heard that this boy was unusual and he would have thought the rumours were exaggerated if the boy had not shown this strange sort of pride and age.

If he couldn't see those eyes.

The Oyabun shifted slightly, keeping his gaze trained on the boy in front of him who stared stolidly back. If his feet or legs were getting tired or his eyes were beginning to water with the intensity of his stare, he showed no sign of it, continuing to look forward doggedly. The Oyabun was both amused and intrigued. So this was the child everyone was talking about, eh? The supposed prodigy who had taken the lower levels of the Yakuza by storm? No one knew what to make of him. Two years prior, he had impressed the shateigashira of a small faction in an outer region of Tokyo when he had exposed a trap by a rival gang. The man had presented the boy to the fuku-honbucho of the area, more as a joke than anything. A 'hey, look at this smart-ass foreigner we found. He saved our butts but whatever, listen to him spout proverbs!' sort of situation. The faction and its leader had felt not shame at almost being duped, or any sense of extreme gratitude towards the boy. No, they had only felt a profound sense of amusement at having found such a prideful old soul in such a tiny body.

The fuku-honbucho hadn't been so narrow-minded. He'd recognized what the boy was. A prodigy who had saved the butts of his underlings and him a whole lot of money. So he'd listened when the boy made his request to join the Yakuza. Smirked a bit. Looked the tiniest bit amused. But he had listened, and he had let the child join the most run-down, decrepit, faction in all of Japan. Whether he had put him there to test his skills and force him to prove himself or he was simply waiting for the boy to get himself killed was anyone's guess. But whatever the original motive, the unusual boy did prove himself. He organized and he strategized and he turned the most run-down faction into the most profitable one.

And that's when he attracted he attention of the Oyabun.

But the Yakuza head hadn't done anything. The child was, after all, still just a child. Smart as he seemed to be, it was likely that, should he stay in the criminal world, he would quickly run into trouble and most likely meet his death.

As it were, despite all the profits the boy brought in, there was something bitter about having all your success resting on the wisdom and knowledge of an eight-year-old child. The fact that he carried himself so highly, that he didn't bow to his elders as low as he should, that he met the men's gazes evenly instead of gazing demurely at the ground, all of it contributed to growing resentment against him.

And, of course, there was the fact that he was Chinese, not a drop of Japanese in him.

His odd accent, his incessant use of proverbs, the way he occasionally had to pause in a sentence to find the right phrase or word…annoying, insulting, why was the kid even _here? _

The profits and the resentment weighed evenly for a while and though there was much whispering and muttering and hateful glances, the boy maintained his position in the faction.

Until he made a mistake.

The boy had been with that faction for over a year. He had brought them success after success and more money than they had seen in all their previous years of operation. He was a child, a highly intelligent child, but a child nonetheless. And children do stupid things.

Like getting distracted and having an entire shipment of refined opium stolen right from under their noses.

It was a bad mistake, a really bad mistake, and anyone would have been severely punished for it. For the boy, however, the punishment extended beyond just a fierce beating from the other member's of the faction. It also meant they finally had an excuse to kick him out without seeming petty.

The child had tried to join other factions, tried to speak with the _fuku-honbucho, _but no one would have him, no one would speak with him. He was intelligent and had brought his previous faction lots of money, but there was a large degree of animosity towards a ten-year-old Chinese boy who acted like he owned the world and was smarter than everyone else. It was disrespectful enough that a youth seemed to be above his elders in intelligence. It was outright outrageous that a Chinese would be above a Japanese.

And so, the boy, his novelty having worn off, was cast out into the streets. He probably would have been able to keep himself alive for awhile, with the vast amount of cunning that he held, but it was inevitable that he would meet his end in some way, either getting attacked by thugs or tragically getting run over by a rickshaw.

But it was at this moment that the Oyabun decided to stop watching Wang Yao, and to meet him for the first time himself.

And now, here they were.

The man cleared his throat, signaling that he had finished appraising Wang visually and was ready to begin speaking. The Chinese boy blinked once, before standing a little straighter and lifting his head a little higher, folding his arms behind his back as he prepared himself for whatever questions or statements the Oyabun was about to make.

The man's eyebrows were knitted together, his dark eyes searching. Licking his lips once, he finally began to fire off questions.

"You're Chinese. Were you born here?" he asked sternly, his voice deep and authoritative.

"I was born in Xiamen, China," answered Wang, his voice clipped and emotionless, as if he was reciting facts that had nothing to do with him personally.

"When did you come here?"

"When I was five."

"How old are you now?"

"Ten."

"Your Japanese is almost perfect."

"I learn fast."

The Oyabun paused, noticing the first colouring of emotion in the boy's speech. Predictably, it was pride. The man felt prickles of irritation creep up his spine and began to understand why the boy had been so infuriating to the members of his faction. There really _was _something annoying about a boy who held himself like he was the Emperor himself.

Shaking off the train of thought and pushing the irritation back, The Oyabun narrowed his eyes and continued on with his interrogation.

"I hear you are proficient in Kung Fu. Where did you learn?"

"My _Ye ye _taught me until he died. He was a master in his youth. When I came to Japan, I continued to learn from a retired _sensei _living behind an abandoned Okiya."

"Why would a _sensei _be living behind an abandoned Okiya?" The Oyabun's eyes narrowed. The boy had appeared to be nothing but truthful so far, and though the faults recounted by the shateigashira had been numerous, lying had not been one of them. However, now…

"His wife died of an unknown illness. All three of his sons died fighting in China. He gave up Kung Fu and gave up life. He taught me only because I brought him food each day."

The Oyabun stared, eyebrows knitted together and lips pressed into a thin line.

"Is that the truth?"

"It is."

There were many things that were hard to label as truthful in the boy's story. Why was a Japanese man a master in Kung Fu anyways? It wasn't unheard of, but it was unusual. And if his sons died fighting in China, would he truly wish to aid a Chinese boy in learning to fight? And if he had truly given up on life, why would he respond to offers of food?

The Oyabun intensified his stare, the first flickers of anger becoming evident in his expression. The boy's steadfast gaze didn't flicker. He didn't look nervous, or sheepish, or any of the characteristics normally linked with lying. He looked completely apathetic.

Another prickle of irritation tickled the Oyabun, and he quickly cast aside his suspicions. Letting his anger cloud his vision while he was appraising this boy would not do.

"Why did you wish to join the Yakuza?" he asked quickly, cutting straight to the point of the entire matter. Why _would _an eight-year-old boy want to join the Yakuza? It was an unanswered question that had fed some of the suspicion and distrust that the other members felt for the child. A question that the Oyabun was determined to have answered.

Wang's eyes flickered, showing true emotion for the first time, and he pursed his lips. The Oyabun noted the reaction with interest, watching as the boy lost his tense stance and fidgeted slightly.

"It is beneficial to me," he said after a brief silence, his tone guarded and the words slow and enunciated.

"Is it?" said the Oyabun, an unamused smile on his face at the clear avoidance of the question. Wang's eyes flickered up from where they had dropped and met the man's firmly.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It provides the quickest road to my goal."

"And what is your goal?"

And here, for the first time, the boy visibly hesitated. His goal was a bit unusual, unorthodox. It was also one that most people wouldn't take seriously. He could explain his reasoning behind it, but he doubted the man would get it. Adults never seemed to. At worst, he would realize that one of his goals was eventually to take over the Yakuza and not permit him to join in the first place. It probably wasn't the best idea to tell the man his goal.

But on the other hand, the man would undoubtedly know if he was lying.

"I believe the simple way to state it would be 'world domination',"

The Oyabun's eyebrows shot up towards the crown of his head, actual surprise warping his face. Disbelief, then amusement, then anger rolled through him. His first reaction was to remove the boy from his office, having discovered that he was, indeed, just another child with childish fantasies.

But then he saw those eyes again.

The man smoothed over his expression, folding his hands neatly atop his lap. He cleared his throat a little, before pursing his lips and meeting the boy's golden eyes with his own.

"Is that so?" he said, replying to the boy's statement with the utmost seriousness. "And you believe working your way up through the Yakuza will help you achieve that?"

The tiniest bit of surprise flickered across the boy's face, as if he couldn't believe that he was actually being taken seriously. The emotion disappeared quickly, and soon his stoic expression was back, his head nodding slightly.

"I do," he said firmly, "As I said, I believe it provides the quickest road to my goal." Unease begun to breakthrough his calm and adult-like exterior, and the Oyabun began to see the first real evidence of childhood within the boy as he shifted on his feet and finally began to show signs of struggling to keep his gaze.

A strange sense of contentment stole through the Japanese man at the sight, and he felt his whole body relax and the last vestiges of irritation melt away.

_So, when it comes down to it, he is just a little boy after all. _

"Very well," said the Oyabun, clearing his throat once more. "I accept your explanation. I will have you immediately transferred to another faction. The rickshaw will arrive in the morning, until then, you may stay in one of the private guestrooms. My maid will show you the way."

The boy blinked and then frowned, his brow furrowed. "Just like that?" he asked, true confusion and skepticism showing on his face. "You accept my explanation just like that? Does my clear ambition not disconcert you in any way?"

The Oyabun felt tickles of amusement at the quaint, adult way in which the boy was speaking. Like he was an adult.

Which he clearly wasn't.

"No," said the man firmly, allowing the tiniest of condescending smiles to jerk his lips upwards, "Because you are a child. And only that. Whatever great intelligence you have. Whatever great feats you may have perpetrated. You are still a child. And that is all."

Silence reigned across the office. Neither person made a sound. The child stood with his hands clenched, his entire body trembling. His face, for the first time, was showing true distress. His eyebrows were knitted together and his lips were trembling slightly. At that moment, the intense knowledge, cunning, wisdom, and pride had disappeared from his eyes. In their place were hurt, anger, and humiliation.

A sense of satisfaction stole across the Oyabun, and it continued even as the boy regained control over himself and his face once again became the steely mask it had been when he had first entered the room.

"Very well," he said stiffly, not a tremour or a falter to betray the deep shame he must have been feeling from his belittlement, "And whose faction am I being transferred to?"

Ah, and here it was, the Oyabun's own little joke. His ingenious method to keep both an upstart child and an overly haughty and ambitious subordinate in their place.

"You will be placed in the immediate care of the Wakagashira, Honda-sama."

**Kyoto, Japan- March, 1928**

"The shipment from China came through without delay, Wang-sama. It's ready for distribution and use."

Yao opened an eye languidly, twiddling the brush that he held loosely in one hand. His cheek rested on the palm of the other, and his elbow was propped up on the desk.

"Very good," drawled Yao lazily, "Keep the shipment in storage for now. We're still looking at prospective buyers. The amount they're willing to pay goes up as more clients become interested. I plan to push it for another week or two before putting the products into distribution and use."

The messenger nodded once before bowing low and exiting the room. The door clicked shut and Yao was once again left alone and in silence. He stayed in his position for a few more minutes before sitting up with a sigh and leaning back in his chair.

The western style office had been his choice, complete with a wooden desk and a chair instead of a mat on the floor. It had taken some getting used to, but as his English improved he also wished to improve his knowledge of English culture. What use was learning English if he was never going to use it? And if he were to use it, wouldn't it be in a place that spoke English and therefore followed English, or rather Western, customs? Yao had been doing a lot of thinking about the future lately, and little changes in his lifestyle were becoming more and more evident.

It had been three years since Yao had gained control of his own faction. Three years since he'd taken the third major step in accomplishing his overall goal. The first step had been getting to Japan and the second step had been joining the Yakuza. When he had first begun thinking on how to realize his dream of a perfect world under his command, all of the steps had seemed like such lofty goals. But in eight years he had accomplished the three major steps needed to push him to the very top.

To some, it might have seemed like eight years was a long time to accomplish three goals, but when you were a child and the goals you were striving for were those that most adults struggled to complete it was actually quite the accomplishment.

Yao smiled to himself slightly, looking down at the documents on his desk (_his _documents. _His, _as the Shateigashira).

All in all, it had been eleven years since he had first come to Japan, and he truly hadn't done badly for himself.

Yao's smile waned slightly and he found himself clenching the hand that rested on the desk into a fist.

But he had to do _better. _He was sixteen now, and he was still only in Japan. Yes, he had some influence in Korea now, but that was directly through the Oyabun. None of the influence was _his. _If he wanted to complete his plan, he needed to hurry. Eleven years had gone by frighteningly fast, and the next eleven would go by just as quickly. Despite his claim to the name 'China', he was not an immortal country. He did not have all the time in the world, and if he wanted to achieve-

"Aniki?"

Yao blinked, looking up as the door to his office slid open.

A young boy stood in the entrance way. He had black hair, a little long and hanging into dark eyes. A wayward curl stuck out from the side, quivering ridiculously in the air. He was wearing black pants and a sleeveless red duangua, fastened down the front. The boy was looking at Yao with both a searching, and anxious expression. The anxiety was the most prominent though, and the boy shifted from foot to foot, looking incredibly antsy, as if he wished to-

Yao allowed his previous troublesome thoughts to fade away somewhat and smiled at the boy. "Hello Korea. Come here, _aru._"

With a small whoop of joy, the boy bounded into the office. Yao pushed his chair away from his desk slightly, making room for the child to leap into his lap. He let out a small 'oof!' sound as the boy's body crashed into his own, pushing the chair back across the floor.

_He's gotten so big and heavy, _thought Yao with a wince, _soon he won't be able to jump up on me like this. Who knew children grew so quickly? _

Korea wrapped his arms around Yao's neck, his legs hanging off the chair on either side of the teenager's hips.

"Aniki! I finished practicing!" chirped the boy cheerfully, "I did everything you said! I went through all the exercises, and I practiced with the _bokken, _the staff, and the _hwando, _and-,"

"Did you go through all the exercises twice?" Interjected Yao sharply, "And you're not supposed to be practicing with weapons when I'm not around, _aru._"

Korea pouted slightly, before inclining his head to the side and smiling widely. "I did three sets of exercises in Tae Kwon Do! Three times! And Kagimiya-_sunbae_ was-,"

"Korea," said Yao sternly, interrupting again. The boy pouted and sat back away from his elder. His lips remained downturned and he folded his arms across his chest stubbornly. Yao's eyes narrowed slightly, and he raised one of the hands that was resting on the armrest. Korea's eyes widened and then he sighed and slid off of the older boy's lap, hopping onto the floor and taking a few steps back.

"_Hai, aniki. _Kagimiya-_senpai _was there helping me with the weapons. Oh! That's why I'm here, Aniki!" The slightly sullen look disappeared and Korea began waving his arms up and down excitedly, grinning broadly at his 'brother'. "Aniki! Come see! I'm doing really well! Kagimiya-senpai says I can use a real Hwando now! And that I'm really good with a staff! And Aniki_, _I can do that sweeping kick perfectly! I knocked _senpai, _right down! And Aniki-,"

"_Aiyah, _enough, aru!" interjected Yao, placing his hands over his ears and glaring down at his little brother. "Korea, you talk too much. And you're far too hyper. Calm down_._"

Korea's pout returned, but he ceased his endless chatter and stood in silence, fidgeting slightly. Yao slowly removed the hands from over his ears and sat up a little straighter in his chair, appraising his brother.

The young Korean looked to be about nine or ten. He was rather lanky, and had grown a ridiculous amount in the three years since Yao had picked him up. In that time, the boy had gone through an unfathomable transformation from a scraggly street rat to Yao's talented student.

Yao wasn't sure what he had been thinking when he had invited the boy back to the estate with him. In reality, he probably hadn't been thinking much at all. The child had intrigued him, had bested him in conversation, and provided him with an entirely new outlook on having an identity as a 'country'. Previously, it was a title that Yao had reserved only for himself. A title to represent his own peculiarities. But this child had dropped the title both onto himself and onto Kiku. Surprise and slight annoyance had gone through Yao at the moment, but they had quickly given way to quiet musings.

Yao had realized long ago that he wouldn't be able to realize his plans alone. That in order to truly procure the regime he wanted, he would need a strong backing behind him. The first in that backing was Honda Kiku, the son of the Wakagashira and a first-class ticket to the top of the Yakuza. Yao had considered him mostly a footing into the upper ranks of the crime family, but Kiku's quick learning abilities, awe and admiration of him had turned him into a more tangible and lasting ally. Someone that Yao would want to continue to have by his side, even after his original purpose had been fulfilled. And if he wished Kiku to remain by his side, did it not make sense to bestow upon him the same immortal title that he had given himself? As…almost an omen of sorts. If he wished to have that godliness, wasn't it only right that the one he wished to always have at his side obtained the same?

And so, in Yao's mind, Kiku became Japan.

And then there was Korea.

Again, it really was a decision that had no sort of logical backing. A young street urchin had said some unusual, amusing things and so Yao, a _shateigashira _and an important Yakuza strategist, decided to take him on as a student? It didn't make much sense.

But then again, neither did offering an eight-year-old a place in the Yakuza.

And, much like Yao had, the young boy known as 'Korea' had proven himself to be a worthy investment. At first, Yao had had doubts. He had feared that he had made yet another mistake in taking the boy in and made a fool of himself to boot. The other members of the Yakuza did not like him. Would never like him. When Yao had first met Kiku and told him that he was a 'respected' member of the Yakuza, he had been stretching the truth quite a bit. Speaking something he wished would come into existence. Things weren't much better now. While they no longer could hold the fault of being an impertinent child over him, the fault of being Chinese would never fade. Proving himself was something he had to continue to do each and every day, and the smallest of slip-ups brought the risk of him losing everything that he had worked so hard to build up.

So it was necessary that he proved that he hadn't made a mistake in taking in 'Korea'. That the boy would prove to be a prodigy just like Yao himself had been.

It had been rocky at first. Korea was not anything like Kiku had been when Yao had first started teaching him. He was not the son of a Yakuza boss. He had not grown up in a strict, or literate, environment. He was a child who had grown up on the streets of an oppressed and defeated country. A child who saw people beaten in front of him every single day. Who probably had never felt the scolding hand of a parent and had gotten away with all sorts of mischievous and dishonourable acts.

In addition, he was also illiterate, incapable of reading characters in either Japanese or Korean. While it was somewhat beneficial that the boy wouldn't have Korean characters in his head while he was learning the new Japanese ones, having to start from scratch was both unexpected and infuriating. Luckily, the boy picked up speaking the Japanese language much faster than he had picked up writing it, most likely due to him having heard it his whole life. Upon his arrival in Japan, he already knew many Japanese phrases and words, though his wording and grammar were atrocious.

But that simply wasn't enough. As a rule, children were not something that were permitted in the Yakuza. This child with his so-so Japanese and average rate of learning was not welcome. Not like Yao was welcomed. Not like Kiku, who had been born into the Yakuza, was welcomed. And his lack of progress and lack of significant intelligence reflected badly on Yao. It had been tough and Yao had been backed into a corner. If the child continued to not yield results, Yao would have to get rid of him, but to do that would be admitting his own mistake and bring shame onto himself.

But then everything had changed.

Exasperated with the his mediocre results, Yao had finished Korea's lessons early one day, choosing instead to take the boy to the dojo where Kiku was practicing his martial arts. The Chinese boy had thought that, perhaps, seeing his bitter rival working so hard and doing so well at so many different things would motivate Korea. The idea had been a feeble one and Yao hadn't expected the plan to bring about massive changes or any great success.

As he tended to be when it came to matters concerning the Korean, Yao had been surprised. Watching Kiku smugly go through first his Karate routine and then his Kung Fu one, Korea had almost immediately begun to imitate the elder boy's movements. While it had annoyed Kiku, Yao had the let Korea continue, reasoning that the boy was fidgety and this way he was doing something semi-productive.

By the end of the session, Korea could perfectly recreate sixty percent of the exercises Kiku had gone through.

_Perfectly. _

Whereas Kiku was a fast learner, Korea appeared to have something akin to a photographic memory when it came to martial arts. While his moves needed finesse, technique and more power behind them, the motion flowed perfectly. Korea, much to Yao's relief, was a fighting prodigy, and immediately began intense training in Kung Fu and Karate. His language lessons continued, but while it was necessary to iron out his faults and improve his literary skills, in the time when Korea was still struggling to be accepted by the Yakuza, it was _more _necessary to play up his strengths.

Over the past three years Korea had managed to push past all of Yao's misgivings and prove himself to be a worthy investment. His fighting skills were superb and his Japanese was passable, though he was prone to slip into Korean easily. Mandarin was something that was taking time to get him to learn and despite how much he wanted to, Yao hadn't tried to start the boy on English yet.

But the boy was still a prodigy, still a worthy asset. Still capable of being called Yao's 'little brother'.

_China's _little brother.

Korea.

"So your lessons have been going well," said Yao finally, breaking the long silence. A wide grin broke out across Korea's face and he nodded. "Yes! _Senpai _says I'm ready to progress to the next level of Tae Kwon Do! He says-," the wide grin lessened to a small, smug smirk, "He says I'm learning faster and more than Japan!"

Yao had to fight down a smile at the boy's excited and pleased laugh. Korea had never grown out of his fierce desire to overcome Japan. Whether it was the tension between their two countries or simply because Korea was competitive, Yao didn't know. But either way, it spurred both boys to work harder to try and surpass the other. Kiku seemed to have made it his mission in life to prove Japanese superiority, and Korea was determined to prove him wrong.

It was amusing to say the least.

Of course, it had been a while since Korea and Kiku had seen each other. The faction Yao had been given was stationed in Kyoto, a whole city away from Kiku. As much as Yao would have liked to have his 'Japan' constantly by his side, it couldn't be forgotten that he was still the son of the _Wakagashira, _and had lessons and responsibilities other than the ones that Yao gave him. While it had irked Chinese teenager that he would no longer be able to directly oversee Kiku's growth and training, he trusted that the boy was capable enough to continue with his exercises and lessons on his own. If nothing else, so that he wouldn't be usurped by Korea, who was directly under Yao's tutelage, when the three boys met again.

Yao allowed his lips to twitch upwards into an amused smile, "Well in that case, I'll have to come and see won't I?" he said as he stood up from the chair. Korea froze, looking genuinely nervous for a moment, before his smile returned and he took Yao's hand excitedly.

"Alright, Aniki!" he chirped, pulling Yao from behind his desk and out of the office, "Come see! Come see! You'll be so proud of me when you see how well I'm doing!"

Yao allowed himself to be led out of the office and down the hall towards the dojo. The floors creaked as they walked by, straining under Korea's energy-packed steps. Yao grimaced as he heard the floor moan beneath them and saw the peeling walls as they passed. His quarters were nothing like the Honda house, or any of the houses of the other Shateigashira. Despite the fact that the area he had been given control over was much larger than those that other Shateigashira were given. While it irked him, he remained outwardly reserved and bore it stoically, taking it as yet more motivation for him to work harder and make it to the top.

The dojo was outside the main building, and as Korea slid the door open a bout of frosty air hit both boys. Yao shivered once before shaking it off and following his young brother outside.

As they walked through the grounds, Yao found himself once again repressing a scowl. His 'courtyard' was a bumpy and grassless area covered in rocks and weeds. His main building was a shabby and small with rotting boards and splintered walls. The dojo was tilted to the side and the mats were ripped with no chance of repair in the near future.

However much he tried to justify it, the unfair treatment he was given bothered him. Yao was proud. So, so proud. It was, after his cunning, his defining feature. Years of constantly being undermined were beginning to get to him.

Patience was necessary, but Yao wouldn't be able to maintain this routine much longer. He needed to get to the top, and fast.

These troublesome thoughts rolling around his head, Yao looked down at the boy who was skipping along, still clutching his hand and smiling broadly. Korea had been an unexpected bonus in his quest. The boy, along with being a fighting prodigy, was fiercely devoted to 'China'. Whether it was out of gratitude for Yao taking him in, or because he just liked the idea of their roles as 'China' and 'Korea', the young Korean appeared to adore Yao. He tried to spend every moment he could with him, and could only be pulled away when it was hinted that Korea would make 'China' happier by improving his Mandarin then if he fixed his elder's hair into twin tails as the teen tried to work. The boy went out of his way to express his adoration for his brother, exhibiting behaviour not normally tolerated in the strict environment of the Yakuza and in Japan in general. Hugs, cuddling, he'd even kissed Yao on the cheek once. Each time he had been scolded harshly for his blatant misbehaviour and Yao had even backhanded him after the kiss, but he continued to shower his 'Aniki' with affections.

Yao could see the parallels between the way Korea acted around him and the way he had pushed physical contact onto Kiku when they were younger. Yao liked hugs, and he liked cuddling, especially with cute things. But the fact remained that he was a _Shateigashira _now, with much to prove, and that type of behaviour couldn't be condoned any longer.

Yao pulled his hand behind his back as the two boys entered the dojo and Korea finally released him and dashed towards the center. A middle-aged man was sweeping the mats, and as the boy dashed in he frowned.

"What have I told you about running around like that," he growled bad-temperedly, "And I thought I said we were done for- Oh! Wang-sama!" The man's expression morphed from one of anger and annoyance to a sheepish, slightly apprehensive one. He leant the broom against the wall and hastily wiped his hands on his trousers, looking nervous as he bowed low to Yao. "I-I didn't see you there," he stammered, his gaze on the ground.

_Evidently, _thought Yao, pursing his lips and struggling to keep the contempt off of his face.

Kagimiya Shin was a man from Yao's newly acquired faction. He was rather non-descript, if a bit short-tempered. The way he acted when he thought Yao wasn't around clearly illustrated that he was one of those who were deeply disgruntled by their faction leader being a Chinese youth. That aside, he was the only one in the entire faction who was proficient in Tae Kwon Do_. _Yao didn't have the free time he once had and was no longer able to teach the boy effectively by himself. So while he still handled Korea's Kung Fu training exclusively, he had members of his faction that he deemed worthy train the boy in Karate. Tae Kwon Do was a martial art that Yao didn't know and while this bothered him, it wasn't something he could change at the moment. But the fact that he didn't know the art wasn't reason enough for him to not allow Korea to learn it. When he had found out that Kagimiya had learned Tae Kwon Do when he had served in the Japanese army stationed in Korea he had immediately set the man to work teaching the young boy. While Yao usually chose calmer, more experienced, and more loyal men to teach his prized pupil, Kagimiya was the only one in the faction who knew Tae Kwon Do.

It was bothersome, but it couldn't be helped.

"I came to see how he's been doing," said Yao, his face impassive as he folded his arms into his overlarge sleeves, "He's been telling me all about the new moves he can do. Could you perhaps provide me with a demonstration?"

Kagimiya blanched but quickly smoothed over his expression and bowed low. "Of course, Wang-sama," he said demurely before straightening up and turning to Korea with a stern expression on his face. The young boy was practically bouncing up and down, a giddy smile on his face as he looked at Yao excitedly. With his duties as Shateigashira, Yao was a lot busier than he had once been. Unlike his time with Kiku, it was hard for him to oversee and be a direct part of Korea's training. While he always made time to teach the boy Kung Fu and his letters, he usually left Tae Kwon Do completely up to his other teachers. A progress visit was something that rarely happened.

But as Yao stood with his back to the door, arms folded across to his chest and a standoffish expression on his face, he felt a thrill off excitement go through him.

Korea's movements were flawless. As soon as he began his martial arts the adolescent awkwardness, the hyperactivity, the giddiness, and the smothering atmosphere of an overzealous child disappeared. Gone were the gangly limbs, and in their place were perfectly controlled movement and flowing motions. As he went through the starting motions, his entire body flowed as one entity. The goofy grin was gone, though his face wasn't a complete mask of seriousness either. Korea was wearing a sort of half-smile, with his eyes lidded and an overall relaxed expression.

That expression remained even as the boy's movements sped up and the motions became less of a flow and more of a flurry. His punches were in quick succession and Yao's impassive expression broke into a smile for a moment as the boy performed a perfect high kick.

When the performance was over, Korea turned to Yao, his serene expression quickly fading back into his goofy grin. The boy looked tired, sweat beading his lightly toned body, but he ran across the small dojo all the same, wrapping his arms around Yao's waist and looking up at him with wide, overjoyed eyes.

"Did you see, Aniki? Did you see, did you see-,"

"I saw," said Yao gruffly, pulling Korea's leech like arms away from his body roughly, "And stop that. That type of behaviour is inappropriate, you know that."

Korea pouted but let his arms fall to his side, twirling around on his foot before amusing himself by skipping along the lines on the tatami mats. Yao repressed a sigh and the urge to facepalm. Really, where did the boy get all his energy from?

A fidgeting from the other side of the room reminded Yao of Kagimiya's presence. The Chinese teen tore his gaze away from his younger brother and settled his eyes on the older Japanese man. Kagimiya looked uncomfortable, disgruntled, and like he'd rather be anywhere but in the dojo with his Shateigashira and his student.

Yao pushed aside his dislike of the man to the back of his mind and gave him a curt bow. "Thank you for your time, Kagimiya-san," he said politely, "He is progressing well. I hope to see even better results in the future."

Kagimiya's eye gave the slightest twitch at the comment, but he bowed back politely. "_Arigatou, Wang-sama,_" he responded demurely, "I will do my best."

_You'll have to do better than that, _thought Yao, but he bit his tongue, resisting the urge to say the words aloud. It was important that he hide the utter contempt he held for all those beneath him, as there was still a lot of discontentment at sixteen-year-old Chinese boy being a superior over Japanese men. Though he had reached this position he still had to tread carefully. If he lost it before he could completely secure it, than it would be almost impossible to get it back.

That thought had Yao thinking again, about his overall goal, his plans, and where he had to move forward from here. He was currently at something of a standstill. He had progressed quickly to this point and now, at the position of Shateigashira, he had hit what appeared to be a dead end. Continuing on this path would take him nowhere. It was time to turn his plan in another direction in order to get him to his goal.

"Come, Korea," said Yao firmly, turning towards the dojo door. Korea ceased his constant motion and let out an excited "_Hai, Aniki!" _before racing forward and latching onto the elder boy's arm. Yao grimaced and pulled his arm away. As they left the dojo, however, Korea managed to grab his hand. This time, Yao allowed him to maintain the contact.

_So clingy…_, he thought with an exasperated sigh, _honestly, I don't understand where this came from. _

"Aniki, what are we-,"

"We're going for a walk," interrupted Yao abruptly, "And we're going to have a talk."

"A talk!" repeated Korea excitedly, before he frowned and repeated again, more hesitantly this time, "A talk?"

"Life isn't always about action and movement, _aru,_" said Yao calmly, "It is also necessary for there to be time for talking. Like now."

Korea's eyes were wide, as if he couldn't believe the words of wisdom that were coming forth from his elder brother's mouth. He nodded immediately and continued skipping happily beside his brother.

Yao bit back a sigh and shook his head ruefully.

The two boys walked until they reached a relatively large clearing, behind the main building. The area was littered with holes in the middle and the grass had been so trodden around it that you could see a clear dirt path encircling the clearing. All around the edge of the clearing were sparsely leaved trees. Hanging from the branches, leaning against the trunk or pinned to the bark were an assortment of weapons.

"Aniki, I though you said we were going to 'talk'? Are we going to train instead?" asked Korea, tilting his head the side slightly as he looked up at his brother with wide, dark brown eyes.

"Just a little bit," replied Yao with a small smile, "Tae Kwon Do is all well and good, but let's make sure you remember everything _important._"

Uncharacteristic seriousness flickered across the boy's eyes and he nodded once, releasing Yao's hand and taking a few steps backwards, farther into the clearing.

This was the area where Yao usually conducted his own training of the boy. Kung Fu, weapons, and tidbits of many different arts. Anything to add to the boy's already impressive physical ability, and anything that would help in Yao's plans for him.

Yao shifted his stance slightly, standing with his legs apart and his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes narrowed as he gave Korea an intense stare. The boy returned it, lips pursed and body twitching with excitement.

"_S__oujutsu!__" _barked Yao suddenly and loudly. Immediately, Korea sprang towards one of the trees, plucking up two spears from where they were leaning against the trunk. He tossed one to Yao, who caught it expertly and shifted his stance into a defensive position. Immediately, Korea sprang at his mentor, twirling the spear and stabbing the blade forward. Yao moved back, avoiding the thrust easily and parrying with his own spear. Korea pushed his spear down, digging the blade into the ground. Using his own momentum he flipped himself up into the air, aiming a kick at Yao's face. The Chinese teen ducked and grabbed the boy by his other leg, throwing him to the ground. Korea was back up in an instant, jumping for the spear that was still lodged in the dirt.

"_Boujutsu!" _Yao's exclamation rang out just as Korea grabbed the spear and the boy immediately threw it aside, the blade thudding into a tree. He then dashed to a different tree and grabbed a staff, turning and running back at Yao in the same moment.

_Such energy, _thought Yao wryly, holding his spear as if it was a staff. He braced himself as Korea's stick whacked against the spear handle, the boy twisting the staff this way and that way in an attempt to get past Yao's spear and at the elder's body. Yao maneuvered around the clearing, purposefully making his movements erratic and close to obstacles in order to force Korea to adapt as he was fighting. The _thwack thwack _of wood hitting wood echoed through the clearing and Yao had to hide a smile as Korea continued his relentless assault, despite the fact that he must be tired from both the current exercise and his earlier Tae Kwon Do training.

_I won't drag this too long; I really do want to talk. _Though Yao to himself, increasing his own movement and hopping backwards in order to put some distance between Korea and himself.

"_Taijutsu!" _he shouted, dropping his own weapon and throwing it the side. Korea, breathing heavily, tossed his staff aside. He took a second to adjust his position before launching himself at Yao.

Yao actually had to push himself to deflect the flurry of punches that were coming at him. The boy's fists were hard, and Yao could practically feel the bruises forming on his arms as he deflected them. He ducked as the boy aimed a kick to his chest and reached out to grab the outstretched leg, only to feel a fist thud into his unprotected side.

Yao winced and Korea faltered for a moment.

"S-sorry!" he stammered, "Are y-OW!"

Yao's unforgiving fist crashed into Korea's face, sending him backwards a few steps.

"Constant vigilance, _aru!_" he snarled, eyes narrowed, "_Intonjutsu!" _

Breathing somewhat heavily, and still inwardly seething at Korea's loss of concentration, Yao closed his eyes.

_Ichi, _

_Ni, _

_San, _

_Shi…_

Yao calmed his breathing, ignoring the pain in his side and forearms as he counted to ten in his head.

_Kyu, _

_Juu. _

He opened his eyes.

The clearing was empty. The sparse grass was rustling slightly in the breeze and the weapons lay idly where they had been left. There was no sign of Korea, other than a few drops of blood on the ground just in front of where Yao stood, evidence of a bleeding lip or nose, courtesy of Yao's fist.

Yao pursed his lips and scanned the clearing with his eyes, straining his ears for any sound other then the wind moving the grass. The sound of heavy breathing, fidgeting, whimpers of pain or discomfort. Looking for an unnatural splash against the natural backdrop, or a trail of red that led to a hiding place.

Nothing.

Frowning, Yao took a step back, hoping to widen his field of view.

And promptly yelped and whirled around as his back came into contact with something.

"Korea!" shouted Yao indignantly, face red at having been caught unawares, "That is _not _escaping and concealment!"

"But Aniki had no idea where I was!" countered Korea, one hand pressed against his bleeding nose, "And I controlled my breathing and movement and everything! That's concealment, right?" The boy tilted his head, blinking his eyes in a way that seemed far to innocent for someone who had minutes ago been handling weapons like a trained assassin.

"But you mustn't forget the escaping part," admonished Yao, "Sometimes, getting away is most important."

Korea pouted but nodded, licking away a drop of blood that had dribbled onto his lips. Yao grimaced and reached into the pocket of his pants, pulling out a small handkerchief.

"Here, aru," he said, holding the cloth out to Korea, "You see what happens when you don't pay attention? You should have blocked that punch."

"Sorry, Aniki," apologized Korea as he took the cloth and pressed it to his nose, his voice sounding nasally and congested. Yao sighed and slowly lowered himself into a sitting position, signaling for Korea to do the same.

"Are we going to 'talk' now, Aniki?" asked Korea, plopping himself down into a cross-legged position.

"Yes, we are," answered Yao with a nod, giving Korea an intense, searching look. He balanced his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together and leaning forward.

"I have a question for you," he said, his eyes trained solely on the boy in front of him, their amber colour looking hot and molten like liquid gold.

"If it's not grammar related I'll answer it!" replied Korea cheerfully, evidently not sensing the seriousness of Yao's mood. The Chinese teen's eyes flashed angrily and he reached over and gave Korea a harsh slap on each cheek.

"I'm speaking right now," he says sternly, "Don't interrupt, and don't be impertinent."

Korea dropped the napkin, his nose now encrusted with dried blood but not bleeding, and used his hands to gently rub his reddened cheeks.

"Sorry, _hyung-nim,_" he said demurely, "I'm listening."

Yao resisted the urge to groan and merely shook his head ruefully. As some sort of revenge tactic against having to use the Japanese language, Korea made it his mission to speak as informally as possible. Which was why he insisted on calling Yao 'Aniki' instead of 'Oniisama'. Whenever he wanted to show Yao extreme respect and refer to him formally, he switched back to Korean.

Letting the language infraction slide, Yao cleared his throat before once again fixing Korea with a harsh stare.

"Korea," said the elder boy sternly, "You have been with me for three years now. In that time, you have learnt much and seen much. You have seen the extent of my power, and as you have spent time with me, you must also understand that what I have now doesn't satisfy me."

Korea nodded, eyes brimming with curiosity at where his brother's statements could be leading, but obediently keeping his mouth firmly shut.

"I'm not content to sit still any longer," continued Yao, "I'm going to begin moving forward again, soon. And in order for me to do that I'll need support from both you and Japan."

Ignoring the face that Korea had made at the mention of Japan, Yao's expression softened and he reached across and ruffled Korea's hair tenderly, initiating the contact that he claimed to hate so much.

"Especially you, Korea," he said softly, retracting his hand, "I'll especially need your help."

"I'll do anything to help you Aniki!" exclaimed Korea, scurrying forward so that he was sitting directly in front of Yao. "Anything I can do, I will! You don't need Japan, I'll do everything!"

"Everyone has different roles to play," said Yao calmly, "Yours and Japan's are quite different. That said…"

Yao pursed his lips and his forehead creased. He looked down at Korea with the same intense expression as before.

"Korea, just how far are you willing to go for me? How much would you do just because I asked you to? What lengths would you go to to 'help' me?" asked Yao, his questions harsh and hurried, his body leaning forward eagerly for the answer.

Korea blinked once and then replied quickly: "I would go as far as Aniki wanted me to go! I would do absolutely anything you asked! And I'd do anything to help you Aniki!"

"Oh?" said Yao, a grim smile on his face, "And what if I asked you to do something bad, Korea? What if I asked you to kill someone?"

Korea stiffened in surprise. He frowned and tilted his head to the side. The child didn't look shocked or horrified by the question, merely confused.

"Why would you ask me to do that?" he asked, eyes wide and questioning.

"Because in order to advance myself there are some obstacles that I must overcome. I have been trying to do this the peaceful way, to move myself upwards in an honourable manner, but I'm afraid this method is no longer effective and a new one must be applied," replied Yao, "So to answer your question Korea, I would ask you to kill someone because they were in my way. Would you do it?"

A silence fell between the two boys and Korea straightened his head, staring Yao directly in the eyes.

"China-aniki," he said, his voice light and playful, as always, "Anyone who stops you from getting what you want is a bad person. Aniki is the most amazing person ever, so he should be able to move to the top if he wants! Korea will get rid of any obstacles in your way, Aniki!"

"You would kill someone?" growled China, "You would stab a sword into their gut or wrap a wire around their throat? Crush their chest with a kick or blow out their brains with a gun?"

"Aniki hasn't taught me how to use a gun yet," said Korea with a frown, "And I'm not supposed to use a sword without supervision. Is a spear or a knife okay?"

China blinked once before bursting into laughter.

_This boy….never ceases to surprise me and leave me speechless. _Thought Yao with a smile. _Perhaps he will prove to be the worthiest investment I've ever made. My true ticket to the top. _

Korea, not sure what had sent his big brother into peals of laughter but enjoying the atmosphere, joined in with giggles of his own, snuggling into his beloved big brother's side.

_My little soon-to-be-assassin. _Smirked Yao, looking down at the boy nestled into his side.

_Korea._

**/**

__**This is so late. **

**Well actually it's only like a week late. **

**Anyhoo there are a whole bunch of reasons. Mostly I just wasn't feeling it. I'd be like 'I should edit and post chapter 8...bluh'. I'm not gonna lie, it's partly because I was expecting a better response to last chapter. Everyone seemed so excited about the Asia chapter...but only three reviews. It made me a little sad. **

**And then I started a Homestuck fanfiction and kindasorta completely forgot about this one. **

**And then I had a French project and a math project and you know what I'm going to shut up now. I'm sorry though. Should not let personal melancholy get in the way of updating. **

**Anyhoo, here's the chapter! God I love Korea. I love Asia. They are all so crazy it is just magnificent and it is actually just so delicious writing them. Like delicious is the actual word I would use. It is simply decadent conveying their sheer insanity. **

**Thank you for everyone who reviews! You make all the warm flutteries in my chest. :3 And thank you everyone who reads. Even if you don't review I'm glad you're here enjoying the story. But you know, reviews are nice. **

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p **

**/**

****Chapter 9: Brothers reunite. A family continues to form. And the fuse is lit for a soon-to-be explosive war.


	9. Some Might Say We've Lost Our Way

_Chapter 9_

_"Some might say we've lost our way, **But I believe we've not gone far enough."  
><strong>_-A Gentleman's Coup, **Rise Against**

**Hong Kong, China- November, 1928 **

"Welcome, Mr. Honda. Mr. Wang will be with you in a moment."

Kiku nodded slightly, struggling to wrap his head around the English words as the elderly servant bowed before him. He watched as the man began instructing the serving men that had accompanied him where to take his bags, hurrying them away to place the luggage in some room. Another servant, a middle-aged Chinese man, bowed deeply to him before gesturing for Kiku to follow him into another room. Rather in awe and feeling slightly lost, the boy followed.

Kiku hadn't seen Yao in over a year. The last time had been the previous October, when Kiku had gone down to Kyoto to visit for Yao's birthday. At that time, Yao had been extremely distracted, constantly receiving and writing telegrams, reading over paperwork and letters and seeming completely immersed in work. The elder had seemed very happy to see Kiku but hadn't managed to spare him more than a few glances.

Kiku had expected a visit from Yao in February, for his birthday, but had been disappointed when Yao had sent a letter saying he was too busy and wouldn't be able to make it. Kiku didn't receive any other contact from Yao after that. It was almost as if the Chinese boy had dropped off the face of the Earth.

Until about three months ago, when the entire world of the Yakuza had watched in stunned silence as Yao suddenly seized control of a portion of the underground business in Hong Kong.

Or rather, seized control of _most _of the underground business in Hong Kong.

The suddenness and unexpected nature of the venture had sent a ripple of shock and outrage through the Japanese underworld. It wasn't that the Yakuza didn't have ties or dealings in other countries. On the contrary, their trading and influences bled heavily into China and even heavier into Korea. But Hong Kong was an area whose black market rivaled that of all of Japan. An area that was not only hard to infiltrate because it had no desire or need to trade and make alliances with Japanese business, but also because it was _British. _Hong Kong had become a part of Asia that was no longer part of Asia. Things worked differently there, and setting up trade in Hong Kong was completely different then setting up trade in any other part of China.

And yet, Wang Yao had somehow managed to do this. What was more, he had somehow managed to _take control _of the area.

Without anyone noticing.

Understandably, the various factions and families of the Yakuza were in an uproar. Wang Yao had always been a problem to them as a usurper and an upstart. Since receiving his own faction he had quieted and not done much to draw attention to himself, but now he had burst back onto the scene with a startling flurry of activity. Once again causing a huge amount of animosity to be directed at him in waves.

Back home in Tokyo, it was all people were talking about. Or rather, all they were _yelling _about. The higher levels of the Yakuza had always hated Wang Yao. Hated that he was a child. Hated that he was Chinese. Hated that he had had the gall to accept the position of _Shateigashira, _however small the faction was. His promotion had been a way to keep him out of trouble. Give him the respect and power he seemed to wish for by elevating him to a higher position, but have that power be over a useless and decrepit faction. Despite what they had seen in the first faction Yao had been in, the men were still surprised by the amount of success and wealth he brought the area that he had been assigned to. It hadn't been as astounding as the success he brought the first faction, but everyone had already attributed that to beginner's luck or Chinese cheating.

As it turned out, the child had simply been too busy in Hong Kong to direct all his attention to his faction in Kyoto. And now, he had secured business in the most exclusive area in China. For those already angry with Wang Yao for _existing, _this was nothing short of the final straw.

With all the tension and anger cumulating in Japan, and particularly in his household, Kiku had decided it was a good time to take a vacation. Despite all the pressure and stress in the family, Kiku was still being groomed to take over his Father's position. As such, he'd recently found himself being taken on numerous trips to visit the factions under his Father's control in between his lessons and training. Learning leadership and how to control an area and the business in it was just as important as learning to wield a katana.

It was one of his Father's advisors who had suggested that this time, Kiku visit Wang Yao. His Father had been enraged at the very suggestion at first, until the advisor had stressed how Kiku and Yao had been _such good friends _and how Yao would certainly want to share the story of his sudden success with the boy.

So basically, they had sent him to glean information and discover just _how in Kami-sama's name the boy had managed to get into Hong Kong. _

The entire trip left a bad taste in Kiku's mouth and a sinking feeling in his stomach. The intensifying hatred towards Yao was worrying him, and he had come to warn his friend more than spy on him for his Father. It was a troubling time and he couldn't shake the feeling that a clear line had been drawn between Yao and the rest of the Yakuza world, and soon, Kiku would have to choose between his 'big brother' and his Father and family.

He wasn't looking forward to it.

"Kiku-kun?"

The thirteen-year-old jumped and looked up, eyes wide and expression startled. Standing in the doorway, hands folded in his sleeves and with a small smirk on his face, stood Yao.

In the past year or so, the boy had lost most of the childishness about his body. He was taller, and with a light outline of muscle just barely visible through his relatively loose clothing. The youngish look to his face had faded, and the intense cunning in his eyes shone brighter than ever before.

Yao had also shed the kimonos he usually wore. Instead, he was wearing some traditional Chinese attire that Kiku couldn't place. The outfit looked good on him, and that, coupled with the long black ponytail that hung over his shoulder, made Yao look disturbingly foreign. As if he really was Chinese instead of just Chinese-born.

Kiku stared in a stunned silence, not responding to the elder boy's greeting and staring in blatant shock instead. Yao laughed at the boy's surprised expression and began moving into the room.

"Did I startle you, _aru_?" he said with a smile, "Has it really been long that you've forgotten how to be aware of your surroundings? Really, Kiku, I'm disappointed." Yao's words were teasing, but they had a slight edge to them, and his tone snapped Kiku out of his shocked silence. The boy's cheeks flushed with colour and he hastily bowed, face burning in embarrassment.

"_Konban wa, Yao-san," _he said, trying to hide his mortification, "It has been awhile. Have you been well?"

Yao blinked, and then his smile widened and he rushed forward and sidled up beside Kiku, pulling the boy down onto the couch behind them.

"You're as cute as ever!" he cooed, petting Kiku's head lightly, "Or even cuter! Really, it's been far too long, _aru._"

Kiku stiffened and shrank under the touch, squirming uncomfortably on the seat. When he had first entered to room, he had been confused by the large, western style futon-things placed against the walls. The entire house was Western-style, which quite frankly, freaked Kiku out. It was an entirely uncomfortable setting, and while waiting for Yao, Kiku had been standing stiffly in the middle of the room, feeling very lost and staying far away from the 'couch'.

Now, Yao had dragged him over to…_sit_ on the large, overly-soft futon thing, and for someone who had sat maybe four times in his life and only ever kneeled on mats, his bottom sinking into the soft cushion was nothing short of traumatizing.

And of course, the resurfacing of Yao's incessant need to _touch _wasn't helping.

"I-it has been awhile," stammered Kiku, trying to hide his growing discomfort with the hand that had settled over his own, "But you have been very busy, correct?"

Yao frowned slightly, turning forward with his hands placed neatly in his lap.

"Work never ends, _aru,_" he muttered, almost angrily, "Work, work, work. And for what?" The Chinese teen then sighed, turning back to Kiku with a sad kind of smile on his face. "I've missed you Kiku. So much work! I'm so tired, _aru!_ Honestly, you have no idea what it's been like without you. I'm so glad you're here now! You'll stay for awhile, won't you _otouto?_"

Kiku blinked, caught off guard by Yao's sudden changes in attitude and his sudden flurry of comments. The younger boy floundered for a moment before smiling softly. "I'll stay as long as I can, Yao-_nii_. If you require aide, I will do my best to provide it," he said in his soft tone, feeling the familiar surge of kinship that he had with the older teen resurface. As Yao returned his smile, he felt his chest swell up with warmth and he looked down, blushing.

He really had missed Yao. Even if they had disagreed over a few things the last time they had met (namely a certain Korean brat), they were still brothers and should have always been there to support one another. Despite the fact that it was Yao's work that had kept them apart the last year or so, Kiku felt guilty for not being present to help out his brother. When Yao had first obtained his position of _Shateigashira, _Kiku had been by his side, supporting him both emotionally and physically, going so far as to follow the older boy to Korea. Since then, the boys had spent very little time together and with Yao openly saying that he had been swamped with work and missed Kiku's help…

Kiku would definitely be spending awhile here. Yao was his _Oniisan. _They had been apart, but now they were together again, and Kiku would do his best to support and help him.

A twinge went through the Japanese teen as he remembered why his Father had permitted him to come to Hong Kong, and he bit his lip lightly.

He had a great brotherhood with Yao, but as a Japanese youth, his loyalties always lay primarily with his Father and family. His Father had given him a task, and depending on what exactly he told his _Otousama _when he returned to Japan, it was a task that could potentially hurt Yao.

_My belly hurts, _thought Kiku miserably, suddenly curling inwards on himself. Conflicting loyalties was the one major setback from having such a close relationship with Yao. His goal should be to bring honour to his family, but since meeting Yao, the goal had shifted slightly. And the consequences of that shift were beginning to show with the growing division between Yao and the rest of the Yakuza.

"Kiku?"

Kiku jumped slightly as a hand was placed on his back and he shifted his position, sitting straighter and turning towards the source of the hand sheepishly.

"_Gomenasai, Yao-nii,_" he apologized, "I am still a little tired from the trip over."

That was true. The boat ride from Japan to China and then the train ride to Hong Kong had both been long, tedious, and with copious amounts of sitting. His muscles felt stiff and it was as if there was a heavy weight pressing down on his mind. Kiku was actually _really _tired, and was honestly wondering if he could get away with taking a nap before doing anything else.

Yao's golden brown eyes stared intensely at the younger boy, his look appraising as usual, but his overall expression betraying nothing.

"Constant vigilance, _aru,_" he said softly, "I truly hope your training hasn't degraded _that _much. Your lack of awareness is beginning to concern me."

Kiku's cheeks flushed and he hunched forward awkwardly, twiddling his fingers and feeling deep shame rumble through him.

Of _course _he had been keeping up with his training. He had been practicing his Kung Fu and Karate practically every day, and his skill with a katana had become the Honda pride. Kiku had been excited to show Yao how much he had progressed in the time they had been apart, but it did not seem to be working out very well.

This time, Kiku looked up just as Yao's hand descended on his shoulder, and the Chinese teen smiled sadly.

"I'm sorry Kiku, I'm being unreasonable again, aren't I? You look so sad, and you just arrived!" Yao huffed, bouncing up from the couch and across the room.

"Look, let's start this visit over. Okay, _aru?_" he said with a smile, looking over his shoulder. "I'll get us some tea, and we can chat about what we've both been up to over the past year. I'm sure you're anxious to know how exactly it is that I wound up in Hong Kong, aren't you, _aru?_"

A twinge of guilt lanced through Kiku and he nodded weakly, diverting his eyes to the ground.

"_Hai,_" he said softly, not lifting his gaze. Yao frowned slightly, and his eyes narrowed, but he exited the room, keeping his eyes forward with his lips pursed.

As soon as Yao was gone, Kiku let out a relieved sigh and allowed himself to sink into the overly soft couch. He had barely been in Yao's company for ten minutes, and he was already beginning to feel the pressure of his Father's task and his own personal loyalties, as well as the immense expectations that Yao had for him.

Kiku leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes and enjoying the brief moment of peace and rest that his body had been craving since he had left Japan.

Things were indeed complicated, and it was almost certain that the complications would only increase. He had to figure out a way to balance family and brotherhood, and he had to do it soon.

Kiku had just begun feeling a haze steal over his mind as his body succumbed to the weariness that had been plaguing it when a slight sound assaulted his senses and jerked him awake.

Despite Yao's accusations, Kiku had a _very _good awareness of his surroundings, growing past simple hearing and moving into an ability to read the atmosphere and assess his surroundings in even diplomatic situations. It was, in fact, one of his greatest skills. With the room completely silence as it was, Kiku could very easily hear the sound of a foot pressing onto the wooded floor and stepping into the room.

The Japanese teen sat up immediately, eyes flying open and blinking lethargically before narrowing on the figure that stood peeking around the doorframe.

It was a boy. Young. Chinese. With choppy dark brown hair and dark brown eyes that seemed rather devoid of emotion and life, a look that was enhanced by the utter lack of expression on his face.

Kiku stared at the boy, slightly unnerved by the way he was just staring, his hand on the doorframe and one foot in the room. Kiku narrowed his eyes, shifting his face into a stern expression. The boy was probably a young servant or something like that. He had most certainly gotten curious about his master's Japanese visitor and came to investigate. However, this type of disrespectful staring and spying was completely inappropriate, and Kiku would most certainly tell Yao to punish the impertinent boy later.

For now, he would just have to deal with his uncomfortable staring himself.

"Stop that this instant," snapped Kiku, sitting up and giving the boy his fiercest glare, "It is not your place to be here, and the staring is disrespectful. Leave now."

Far from being intimidated or chastised, the boy just blinked slowly before releasing his hold on the doorframe and stepping into the room completely. Kiku recoiled in astonishment, before his brow furrowed and he stood from his seat.

_What an impertinent boy! _He thought angrily, folding his arms across his chest. _This type of behaviour would never be allowed in Japan. Are they so loose in China that their servants would disrespect a guest and dishonour their master by doing so? How- _

"You are Japan?" said the boy suddenly, speaking in heavily accented English as he stepped closer, causing Kiku to startle in surprise.

_Did he just-? _

"I am Japanese," responded Kiku begrudgingly, "And unless you're going to apologize, you should not be speak-,"

"I do not understand Japanese very well," interrupted the boy, in English again, "If you are speaking something of important, please speak English or Mandarin."

Kiku's mouth hung open in a little 'o' shape, once again surprised by the boy's blunt rudeness. He closed his mouth, his cheeks flushing with colour as he realized his own mistake. _Of course _a lowly servant would not know how to speak a language from an island nation miles away. It was surprising enough that he knew English _and _Mandarin. Kiku should have realized that right away and saved both of them all of this awkwardness.

"Ah," replied Kiku, clearing his throat and trying to hide his own embarrassment, "I said that unress you have task, you should not stare so rudery at guest." Kiku's tongue tripped over the English pronunciations and the entire sentence came out garbled and awkward. He found himself thanking the Gods that Yao wasn't here to listen to his butchering of the language and to berate him for not practicing it more.

The child blinked, (that seemed to be his default response to everything), and merely walked farther into the room, towards the couch.

"I have task," he answered, his English also awkward but his accent nowhere near as bad as Kiku's, "I wish to meet you. Have heard of you, Japan."

A sinking feeling settled in Kiku's stomach as he began to suspect that the boy was referring to _him _as Japan, bringing back unpleasant memories of a certain bratty Korean.

"I am not Japan," said Kiku slowly and clearly, "I am merery guest here. Prease, take your reave. You are beginning anger me."

The boy stared, his brow furrowing slightly in what might have been confusion.

"You _are _Japan," he stressed, "China and Korea both say that Japan is coming today. You _are _Japan. That is why China was speaking with you before. Japan-_gege, _yes?"

All the colour drained from Kiku's face as he stared at the boy in blatant shock and disbelief.

_It can't be. _

_Not that…not that _game _that Yao stared all those years ago. With that Korea brat. He can't be keeping it going. To go so far as to tell the servants to refer to him as- _

Kiku stopped his thoughts, looking at the boy with appraising his eyes.

But _was _this boy a servant? It seemed more and more unlikely. No servant would back talk and exhibit the rude behaviour that this boy did. In addition, no servant would be able to speak a second language so fluently, unless they were of a high rank, something extremely unlikely for a child that looked to be seven or so years old. And lastly…

_Doesn't 'gege' mean big brother in Mandarin? Why would he call-_

"_What are you doing in here?" _

Both boys looked up and towards the door as a familiar voice speaking clipped Mandarin echoed around the room. The Chinese child immediately bowed low and Kiku raised a questioning eyebrow before turning to face the man who had just entered.

Yao walked into the room, carrying a tray with two steaming cups of tea sitting primly atop it. His expression was a slightly irritated one, aimed mostly at the child still folded over in a bow.

"_Xianggang," _he began snappishly, in Mandarin once again, "_Why are you in here? Shouldn't you be practicing your lessons in your room? I haven't invited you down yet!" _

The child rose from his bow, blinking slowly and tilting his head to the side. "_I was curious," _he stated bluntly, his gaze shifting back over to Kiku, "_I wanted to see the Japan-gege that Korea goes on about." _

"_You should have waited," _said Yao sternly, placing the tray on the small table before folding his arms across his chest, "_I am not ready to introduce the two of you formally yet. You are dismissed. You must complete double the lessons to make up for disobeying me." _

The child's emotionless face twitched into a slight expression of annoyance and his lips slid momentarily into what might have been a pout, but the show of emotion was wiped away in a flash, and the boy bowed once more, to both Yao and Kiku, before briskly leaving the room.

As soon as he was gone, Yao blew out a sigh, shaking his head ruefully.

"Children these days," he said, hands on his hips as he switched back to Japanese, "I don't think I ever had any trouble with you, and even Korea, hyper as he is, listens to everything I say. _Aiyah, _what is the world coming to where a young boy will no longer treat his elder with respect? I tell you Kiku, the sooner I take control, the better."

Kiku sat back down slowly, watching Yao carefully as the Chinese teen made his way back to the couch. The younger boy's mind was racing, and an uncomfortable feeling and one of disbelief were making him fidget.

"Something the matter?" asked Yao as he sat down, reaching forward to lift one of the cups of tea off of the tray. Kiku continued watching him, slowly leaning forward to pick up the other cup and bring it to his lips.

"No," he said curtly, even as his stomach churned, "I just couldn't help but notice that that boy had a rather strange title."

Yao raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of tea while observing Kiku calmly from over the edge of his teacup.

"_Xianggang?" _he repeated in Mandarin, and then in Japanese: "_HonKon?" _

Kiku nodded, sipping at the tea daintily. "He is named after the city?" he asked in as nonchalant a manner as he could, despite the fact he already knew where all his questions and comments would eventually lead to.

_It's impossible. The first one was enough of a mistake. Yao-nii wouldn't be so foolish as to-_

"Yes, well, I thought a name representing my recent entry into the English world was befitting. And Hong Kong _is _an English colony. But it is still in China. The best of both worlds, don't you think, _aru?_" Yao was watching Kiku closely, measuring his reaction and waiting for his response. Even as he sipped at his tea, those golden brown eyes never left Kiku's face, and the Japanese teen felt himself stiffen under the gaze.

"So you named him?" replied Kiku, continuing to play the game where he pretended that he had no idea what Yao had done, "As a city?"

"No different than naming my students and myself as countries, _aru,_" responded Yao coolly, placing his tea back on the tray as he turned to face Kiku directly. The younger swallowed thickly and also turned so that he was directly facing his brother, hands folded neatly in lap.

"_Nii-san,"_ began Kiku as firmly as he could, "Did you…is….did you take in another child? Another child like Korea?"

Yao's lips twitched upwards and he gave Kiku a vaguely amused look. "You sound disapproving, _aru,_" he commented nonchalantly, resting his elbow on his knee and his chin on his fist, "I thought you just had a vendetta against Koreans. Surely there's nothing wrong with adopting a young Chinese boy as my student. One less pickpocket on the streets, wouldn't you say?"

"Yao-nii," continued Kiku, feeling irritation and disbelief prickle throughout his body, "What are you hoping to accomplish by taking in all these peasants? And what's more, what exactly is the purpose in giving them these 'country' names? And me as well? I don't understand your reasoning. People keep questioning you, and doing strange things like this just add to their concerns. I-,"

Kiku finally broke eye contact with Yao, clearing his throat as he dropped his gaze down to the floor.

"I don't understand," he said quietly, "You…You are always so vague when you speak to me of your plans. Of what you wish to accomplish. But…" Kiku looked up, dark eyes wide and searching, "Aren't I your brother? The one who will be at your side until whatever ends this quest reaches? Don't I work hard to make you proud? Niisan…" Kiku trailed off, his gaze once again falling to the floor as he fidgeted and gnawed at his bottom lip.

Silence fell between the two boys, and Kiku crossed his ankles awkwardly, staring at his sandals and waiting for some sort of response from his brother. The silence was deafening, and the only sound that could be heard was the footsteps of the servants bustling about further down the hall.

Several minutes passed, and Kiku lifted his head slightly, surreptitiously sliding his eyes over to Yao, searching for any sort of response or recognition. The Chinese teen had his head turned away with his chin still resting on the palm of his hand. Kiku sighed and returned his gaze to the ground sadly. So Yao wasn't going to answer his question after al-

"An impossible task."

Kiku jerked upright, blinking as he turned back towards the older teen sitting beside him. Yao didn't move for a few moments, before slowly turning his head back to face Kiku, golden eyes narrowed and brow furrowed as if he was deep in thought.

"It is an impossible task," he repeated, "This business of gaining complete control over this world. Such a task, such an ideal, is one that people laugh at. One that is best suited for novels or legends as the ridiculous and malicious goal of some greedy antagonist."

Yao turned his head slightly, fixing his gaze forward as if staring off into the distance. "But my reasons aren't so selfish," he continued softly, "I want to change this world. Bring it together. While the goal is ambitious, and the belief that I would be the best one to unite and rule the world is presumptuous and arrogant, I have no malicious or evil reasons behind it. And yet," Yao sighed and leaned back against the couch slightly, once again shifting his gaze over to Kiku, "The goal is a lofty one. The bar is set above the stars Kiku, farther than any mere human could reach."

The Chinese teen stared at his younger brother before smiling slightly, his eyes lidded, "Which is why that title you gave me; the title that came from that lovely description of myself as greater than a mere child, than a mere man…that is why I loved that idea so. Surely a single person, a lowly human, could not unite the world. But more than a human, an immortal and otherworldly being…someone like that could unite the world.

"Countries are immortal. Countries change and break down but they are immortal. A great force governed by the push and pull of society, much like humans, but the power to remain throughout the centuries as a driving force with sway over world affairs and a permanent place on this planet that can never be uprooted. That is what I aspire to be. I wish to remain immortal on this Earth. I wish to leave a mark that will never be forgotten and I wish to have a strong say in what goes on in this world. To want to be a country may seem like a strange desire, a strange ambition making a strange child even stranger, but that is the truth of the matter. I want to rule the world, but as a mere human, I cannot. I want to be an immortal country, Kiku. Even if it is just in title alone."

Yao folded one leg over the other and placed his elbow on his knee, once again leaning his cheek on his fist as he stared at the younger boy.

"And of course, immortal or not, I cannot accomplish my goal alone, _aru,_" he continued with wry smile, "Which is why I also bestowed the name of a country onto you, my beloved little brother. I want you by my side always, and if I am immortal, you must be as well."

Kiku stared at his brother, struggling to find the words to respond to such a profound speech, with such a strange message. Yao really was something akin to an otherworldly being, and his fascination with being immortal and wish to be called a country didn't surprise Kiku or seem as weird to him as it would to other people. However, the Japanese teen wasn't sure how he felt about being referred to as a country as well. He wasn't so ambitious as to aspire to be on par with an immortal being. He was content with being human and didn't hold the lofty goals that Yao did. Though the elder boy had long ago told Kiku to reach higher and past the constrains of his family, at the back of his mind, Kiku's primary goal had always been to simply succeed his Father as _Wakagashira. _He had no need for immortal titles or the like.

But he also wanted to be there to support Yao. The line between his two loyalties was getting thicker, but Kiku would straddle it for as long as he possibly could.

"I…I understand, Yao-nii," said Kiku quietly, "And…I will continue to support you. As Kiku or as Japan, but…"

"But…?" echoed Yao, raising an eyebrow and narrowing his eyes slightly.

Kiku's gaze slid towards the doorway and prickles of irritation danced through him as he remembered the boy who had stood there minutes before. Kiku could understand Yao's strange quirks and desires, he had known the boy long enough to know that he looked at things differently than other people and that for him, the world worked in an entirely different way. He was okay with Yao giving him the title of Japan, really.

But why on _Earth _would he go around giving country or region titles to street rats?

"Ah," said Yao suddenly, body relaxing slightly. As if reading Kiku's mind, he said: "You are wondering about Korea and Hong Kong?"

The mere mention of Korea was enough to make Kiku's eyes twitch, and Hong Kong hadn't left the greatest impression on him either. The Japanese youth struggled to keep a neutral expression on his face and merely sat up straighter, keeping his hands in his lap and fighting off a scowl.

"Perhaps," he said vaguely, trying to keep any negative emotions out of his voice.

Yao let out a short bark of laughter and leaned over to lightly pinch Kiku's cheeks. "You're so cute when you act all serious like that! _Ke ai, aru! _If you don't like them just say so! I won't bite you for it," teased the older boy as Kiku recoiled from the touch and rubbed his cheek.

"Fine," he replied snappishly, "I don't like them and I don't understand the purpose in keeping them around. Nor do I understand why you would give them so-called 'immortal names'."

Yao's eyes twinkled mischievously and his smile widened. "_Daisuki no otouto, _surely you don't think that taking control of the world is a job doable by two people! While you are my first and foremost beloved little brother, it stands to reason that I would need others to do jobs that you can't."

Kiku bristled slightly, "I assure you, there is nothing that Korean brat can do that I cannot do better, Niisan."

Something shifted in Yao's expression and his smile became slightly darker as his eyes shimmered with some inner musing.

"You sure, _aru?_" he commented idly. At Kiku's outraged expression he leaned forward and held up his hands in a placating manner. "I simply mean that you also have duties as the son of the _Wakagashira._ We haven't seen each other in over a year. I really can't make do by myself. It only stands to reason that I would get some more help, does it not?"

"But why those two?" pressed Kiku, brow furrowed in annoyance. "That Korean was just a street rat. He may have shown some aptitude at copying my movements that one time, but that does not show any sort of _skill. _And that Hong Kong boy is merely impudent and nothing else."

"I'll admit, _Xianggong _needs a bit of an attitude check," agreed Yao, "But he is already bilingual and is extremely apt at problem solving and quick thinking. I believe he could grow to be a great strategist. He balances out Korea perfectly, who excels at martial arts and fighting. The two of them together could make a great team, or at the very least, provide me with great strength."

"Fighting isn't everything," grumbled Kiku, "I can understand the need for someone who uses their brains, but we are not living in the past. This is not Sengoku; the need for warriors is lessening. I don't see the need for the Korea brat."

"He is more useful then you could possible imagine," countered Yao firmly, "And fiercely loyal to me. Don't doubt my decisions Kiku, that boy might be the single key to ensuring that my plan progresses. Up until a while ago, I was at something of a standstill. It was only this move into Hong Kong that finally got my plan and me in motion again. In order to once again push forward, I will most certainly need Korea."

Kiku made a disagreeing noise but didn't comment further, reaching forward to pick up his cup of tea and take a long sip.

"I see," he replied emotionlessly, replacing the cup on the dish with a _clink _sound. "This move into Hong Kong truly was a miraculous thing. I can't help but wonder how you managed it."

The words sounded mechanical, even to Kiku's ears. He _was _truly wondering how Yao had managed to get into Hong Kong, but the task that his Father had given him and its implications were souring the words on his lips.

If Yao had picked up on the awkward way Kiku had spoken, he didn't show it and merely smiled lightly in response to the question.

"It's no great secret, _aru,_" he replied calmly, picking up his own teacup and sipping at it. "I merely began doing trade with some smalltime criminal factions here. I provided them with high quality products and in return they traded their crap to me. It was an offer they couldn't really refuse."

Kiku blinked and then frowned. "But Yao-nii, that doesn't sound very smart. Weren't you getting cheated then?"

"At first it would seem so," agreed Yao, "But when the other, larger and more profitable groups saw the dregs of their society getting such good deals, well, of course they wanted their own cut. And the English may have control over Hong Kong, but it's still Chinese who run it within. Japanese products are still prized commodities."

"So…" Kiku pursed his lips, trying to piece together all the information, "You made a series of bad deals to low grade gangs to attract the attention of powerful, richer gangs. And when they requested trade you returned to normal trade and to the normal prices?"

"Something like that," replied Yao, "What matters is that I gathered enough income and support to set up my own house and faction here. Already my business is outdoing most of the others here. I've made some enemies because of it, but," the Chinese shrugged with a smile, "It's a small price to pay in the name of progress."

The wheels were turning in Kiku's head as he struggled to figure out what was so ingenious about Yao's plan. It all seemed rather…simple. Why had no one thought to do something like that before?

"Because they don't like losing money, _aru,_" said Yao, once again answering Kiku's un-asked question, "They are not willing to take that first plunge. I lost a lot of money during those first months of trade. I've regained it tenfold since then, but no high-ranking member of the Yakuza would be willing to do what I did. That is why no one else has succeeded in Hong Kong."

Yao's smiled widened and he looked at Kiku, eyes hooded and glittering cunningly, "Foolish old men, _aru. _That's why I keep telling you, you will get nowhere if you continued to singularly pursue the idea of being _Wakagashira _after your Father. There is no creative thought in the upper levels of the Yakuza. And thus, no real progress. If you wish to get anywhere Kiku, you need to stay with me."

Kiku swallowed, struggling to hold Yao's piercing golden gaze as the older boy stared at him intensely. Again, he found himself stunned by the vast amount of intelligence and wisdom in those oddly coloured eyes.

_China, _thought Kiku to himself as he lost himself in the gaze of liquid gold. _Immortal, immovable, wise and ancient, China. _

It was Yao who finally broke the eye contact, picking up the almost empty teacup and staring into it mournfully.

"I'll have to get a servant to make more tea," he said with a sigh. Then, the Chinese teen turned to Kiku with a wide smile, banishing the slightly tense mood that had descended. "So, Kiku-kun, won't you tell me what you've been up to the past year or so? It seems as if we've only been talking about me, _aru!_"

/

Yao sat in his office with the lights dim as he idly leafed through the stack of paper in front of him, eyes lidded as he skimmed over each sheet in a bored manner. The room and the hallway beyond it were in complete silence, the house dark except for a few lit candles here and there.

Kiku had long since retired, tired out from his long journey and beginning to drop off into sleep even as he had attempted to carry a conversation with Yao. The Chinese teen had sent the boy to bed, promising that they would finish chatting tomorrow and that he would give him a personal tour of his new house.

Yao looked up from his work, peering around the room with the smallest of self-satisfied smirks on his lips. The house in Hong Kong was a far cry from the house that he had left in Kyoto. Instead of a house provided for him the higher ups in the Yakuza, this house was one that he had bought with his own money and his own profits. It was decorated lavishly. Western-style but with an oriental décor and ambiance. A unique blend of styles and cultures that Yao thought perfectly represented the city he was in. It was a bit of an extravagance, some might say, but after the dismal house in Kyoto Yao thought himself entitled to a little splurging and self-indulgence in this new home.

The amount of success that he had had in Hong Kong was astounding, more than anyone could have thought possible, and it had propelled him out of the three-year slump that he had fallen into. Now, at age seventeen, he had taken the step that would expand his borders beyond just Japan, Korea, and even China. With his roots firmly planted in an English colony, he could begin looking at the Western world.

Yao dropped his gaze back down to the desk, his eyes being drawn to a letter sitting primly near the edge of it. He picked it up with a smile, reading it over again and again as he was apt to whenever he felt like reliving his success.

The letter was in English, and reading it over took some time, but as he did his smile grew wider and wider and the look in hi s eyes grew ever more malicious.

Because the truth of the matter was that Yao hadn't been completely truthful when he had told Kiku the source of his wealth and success in Hong Kong. The story had been true, but that was not the _only _reason that he now had enough to money to buy an expensively furnished western style house.

Yao was pulled from his inner musings as the door to his study creaked open and a slim figure stepped into the doorway hesitantly, folding their hands behind their back as they waited to be permitted inside. Yao immediately smiled upon seeing the visitor and beckoned him in with a hand. Korea immediately bounced inside, grinning wildly per usual and skipping forward to lean on the side of Yao's desk.

"Nini!" he cheered happily, attempting to clamber up onto Yao's lap. The Chinese teen stiffened but merely made an uncomfortable sound, allowing the boy to plop himself down on top of him.

Korea had grown ridiculously in the past year. He couldn't have been more than ten years old, but his head already reached Yao's shoulder. His face still had that cherubic look to it, but his body was toned and muscled in a way that you wouldn't expect from a young boy. Yao had trained him rigorously since taking him in. He worked daily on exercises that hardened his fists, strengthened his grip and arm strength, increased his running speed, quieted his walking and improved his own personal cunning and mental strength. Outwardly, the boy still seemed foolish and rather useless, but on the inside he was a highly trained warrior who, despite what Kiku thought, would be quite useful to Yao in the coming times.

Namely, right now.

"_Nihao, _Korea," said Yao, trying to mask his discomfort that the boy's weight was causing him, "How did your training go today?"

"I read all those books on strategy, Aniki," he said proudly, before pouting, "I don't like reading though. I would much rather train with you. I want to perfect _Boshi ken _and _Shikan ken! _You said I punch like a girl!"

"Your punches are indeed shameful," agreed Yao, "But that is something we can work on another time. Even if your technique is bad, your fists are still hard enough to deal lasting damage."

Korea grinned crookedly, evidently feeling immensely pleased with himself. Yao scowled and gave him a smack on the side of the head, causing the Korean to wobble to the side and almost fall off of the older boy's lap.

"Ow! Aniki!" protested Korea, rubbing the side of his head with a pout.

"Don't get so full of yourself," admonished Yao sternly, "You still have a long way to go."

Korea made a disgruntled face and muttered something in Korean, earning him another smack on the head.

"Japanese or Mandarin," snapped Yao, "Or English, but I'm beginning to doubt you'll _ever _learn that. _Xianggang _can speak English. So can Japan. Why can't you?"

Korea's normally cheerful face darkened and his eyes narrowed into what could almost be considered a dangerous expression.

"I can do anything that Japan can," he hissed lowly, "He hasn't even been here. I'm always here for Aniki. I love Aniki. I'd do anything for Aniki. Why are you talking about Japan? Japan's not special. Stupid bowl-haircut. Stupid _sumimasen, gomenasai, sou desuka, ii desu ka, desu desu desu! _There's nothing special about him, Aniki! I can do anything he can! I _can _speak English! I'm not good at it yet but I'll become better than Japan! Just you see!"

Yao raised an eyebrow, amused by the show of venom from the boy who was usually nothing but a ball of sunshine and energy. Korea was scowling and his body had become tense, making it easier to see the rolling muscles beneath his long-sleeved duangua. His dark eyes looking black and feral, the child looked like he was about ready to attack someone.

Yao's lips curled up into a smile.

_Perfect. _

"Korea," he began, gently lifting the boy off of his lap and setting him to rest on his feet in front of him, "Do you remember that talk we had a little while ago? When I asked you a question? About what you would do for me?"

Korea blinked, the murderous look leaving his face as his brow furrowed in thought. He folded his arms across his chest, tilting his head to the side with his tongue sticking out of his mouth in an expression of great concentration.

"What Aniki asked me awhile ago…," he mumbled to himself, "Oh! About if I would ki-,"

"Shh!" hushed Yao, clapping a hand over the hyperactive child's mouth. "Yes, that. Does your response to that still stand, Korea?" Yao watched the child with narrowed, serious eyes, his mouth pressed into a grim line as he looked down at the boy. Korea stared up at Yao, the wide smile back on his face.

"Of course, Nini!" he replied enthusiastically, "Except now I _can _actually use a sword without supervision. That's okay, right?" The child blinked his eyes up at his brother, looking as innocent as always. Yao had to fight back the smile, fight back the chuckle that was building in his chest.

The boy truly was something else.

"I see," he replied, finally letting the smile quirk his lips upwards, "So you are prepared to…fulfill your promise right now?"

Korea paused, looking confused for a moment, before smiling widely and nodded. "If Aniki wants me to, I'm ready whenever! If there is someone in Aniki's way right now, then I'll get rid of them!"

The boy's enthusiasm for the task was a bit disturbing, and if it had been any other child, Yao would have thought they assumed the 'task' was a game and would not take it seriously or go through with it. However, Yao had trained Korea himself. He had taught him the vital points and where to strike a man to ensure he never rose again. He had seen the boys eyes darken as he thrust his weapons into the bodies of practice dummies or when he sparred with others.

The child would go through with it. He would not hesitate. Not if it was to help his beloved elder brother.

"Very good," purred Yao, shifting around sheets on his desk to pull out a folder, pushing it forward so that it rested in front of Korea, who blinked and looked at it curiously.

"This is the information you'll need," stated Yao briskly, wiping off his smile to adopt a more business like air, "You have twelve hours to complete this _task. _I have faith that you can do it. Remember, your training has not been all about martial arts and fighting. You've done a lot of reading and learning how to strategize. You may claim to hate grammar and books but your memory is astounding. I know you can accomplish this flawlessly."

Korea smiled at the praise, a different smile than his usual goofy grin. He bowed low before his brother, clutching the folder to his chest.

"_Hai, Aniki,_" he said in a quiet and respectful voice, "I will do this for you. Because I'm your special little brother, right?"

Yao smiled again, ruffling the boy's hair.

"Right," he said firmly, "Now go make me proud, Korea. Go get that man who is standing in your big brother's way."

Korea nodded, his eyes glinting fiercely.

"Yes, _China-hyung." _

/

Hong Kong.

Despite it being November, the sun still felt like it was beating down and the air felt thick and sticky, made worse by how crowded the streets were. Peddlers swarmed along the edges, shouting fervently to try and make their voices heard over the din. People bustled by and pushed others out of the way, elbowing for the prime spot or to try and attract the attentions of the few foreigners trying to make their way down.

The cars that were on the street were close to one another and added to the stifled and clogged up feel of the area. The cool November wind blew, but there was still an almost unbearable type of heat in the area.

Korea sat on top of a cart, blinking beneath the hood of his cloak as he observed the street below. It was early morning, but the city was already busy. His eyes were sharp, but if he wasn't careful he would miss-

_There! _

Korea's eyes narrowed and he licked his lips as his quarry appeared suddenly; two men struggling to make their way across the sea of grabbing and shouting people to the other side of the street. Korea watched them, marking the direction and their obvious destination before sliding off his perch and moving to intercept them.

Korea moved swiftly through the crowd, his slim form allowing him to squeeze through small spaces and weave around people. The training he had undergone also helped. His steps were light and his movements were smooth. The large cloak he was wearing was hampering his movements, but Aniki would _definitely _be mad if someone saw him here and later went to their house and recognized him after the kill. The concealment was necessary.

Finally, Korea made it to other side of the street, stopping just short of a clean, new looking car that looked ridiculously out of place in the crowded, dirty street. A middle-aged, hardened Chinese man stood in front of it, surprisingly well dressed and looking disgruntled and impatient in the odd heat.

Korea ducked around the other side of the car, crouching low and scooting across the ground. The boy scurried under the vehicle, reaching into the folds of his cloak to produce a small knife.

Korea handled the blade carefully, moving under the shaded area underneath the car to stop just short of legs of the driver. With practiced swiftness, he jabbed out and nicked the driver throught the cloth of his pants. The man hissed in pain and Korea rolled away, out from under the car and immediately melting into the stream of people on the streets.

Mere seconds after escaping the car, Korea found another cart and climbed on top of it without the owner's knowledge, wrapping himself up tight in his cloak and peering outwards with narrowed eyes.

The two well-dressed men, one of them his target, had reached the car. The driver was opening the door for them. He appeared to be grimacing, but otherwise he didn't look too concerned with the sharp pain in his leg he had just felt. He most likely assumed he had jabbed it on a protruding car part. Automobile designs had improved immensely, but the kinds available in China still fell apart often and left much to be desired. It would be easy to assume he had simply nicked himself on a piece of metal.

Korea watched as the men entered the car, the driver closing the door behind them before entering himself. It started up with a rumble and then disappeared down the street, honking at people and other cars to get out of the way.

The young boy hummed to himself, hopping down from the cart and allowing himself to melt back into the crowd, turning away from the direction the car had taken.

_Now to wait~_

It was a few minutes before he heard the screaming, smelt the smoke on the air. Saw the flickers of embers on the breeze. Korea turned his head, and immediately say a plume of smoke rising high into the sky. Everyone was already fleeing from what must have been a massive crash, the flames licking at the flimsy stalls and the paper walls of the Chinese houses. The driver, having succumbed to the effects of the poison, must have crashed into something large and flammable, perhaps another car. It was doubtful that anyone inside the vehicle had survived the impact.

His target was most certainly dead.

Korea had been waiting for this for a while. After following the information in the folder that his Aniki had given him, he had found the target's hotel and proceeded to spy on him there. Find out his schedule, what he would be doing, where he was going. It had involved using his subterfuge skills, as well as his hanging skills. He had spent almost two hours hanging from the branch of a tree outside of the man's window. It wasn't too bad though; China had had him hang for a full day once.

Korea remembered from the books that his brother had made him read that there were several key elements in killing someone. One, you wanted it to look like an accident. Two, to make sure it looked like an accident, it was important that you knew the target's habits, or at the very least their schedule for the day. Three, you had to make sure you weren't seen, or looked inconspicuous so no one could trace the crime back to you. Four, trace the crime back to someone else for extra insurance. Five, make sure the job was done. No loose ends.

China had left the method up to Korea. He had given him all the rules, and left him to his own devices to apply his knowledge and make his Aniki proud. So Korea had followed the target and decided on the appropriate method to get rid of him. A method that wouldn't be traced back. After deciding how, he decided when. The time when _that_ man would be getting into his car and driving to the harbour to board a boat would be a good time. A crowded street, lots of confusion, and a place where no one would truly notice another small Asian boy, lost in the sea of people.

The only missing piece was someone else to pin the blame on, but that couldn't be helped. He could have planted something in the car. Something from a rival businessman perhaps, but it would have burned up in the crash along with his target. Still, four out five was still really good, right?

Korea hummed softly to himself, skipping through the street amidst all the confusion and wrinkling his nose at the smell of smoke and fire in the air.

Had it been too conspicuous? Too large? The fire seemed really big. And everyone was looking at it. But this way, it really looked like an accident. People probably wouldn't even suspect foul play and just assume that the driver had lost control of the car. And making it look like an accident was the over-all goal, right?

Korea looked back over his shoulder one more time, blinking once.

Well, either way, the man named Mr. Kirkland was dead, so China would still be happy with him. Still be proud of him. Would see that he was _way _more useful than Japan.

With a small smile and a happy giggle, Korea raced his way through the confusion and smoke to tell his beloved Aniki the good news.

**/**

**So, this is actually a bit early, but I decided to post it because...**

**Hm. **

**Well, here's the thing. I have this feeling that there is something wrong with this story. Everytime I finish a chapter it seems fine to me, but this story isn't getting a lot of attention and the number of reviews it's getting is dwindling. So I think there must be something wrong with my writing. **

**Especially if I look at the response I got to my last chapter story. I _know_ I'm a decent writer, so I really want to figure out why this story isn't doing so well, despite all the effort I'm putting into it. **

**So...I guess I'm going on hiatus? **

**This is as good a time for a pause as any. As you can probably tell, it's something of a turning point in the story. **

**And, hey look, I finally answered a question. We now know what happened to Mr. Kirkland! (Though we don't know why Yao ordered him to be killed. ) **

**But...yeah. It's just frustrating because I put so much planning and effort into this and bluh. I want to figure out what I'm doing wrong instead of just pushing forward and losing readers. **

**So...if you've noticed something amiss with my writing...could you tell me? **

**Thank you to everyone who does review! Especially I Am Sweden who has reviewed every chapter thus far. 3**

**Anyways yeah. Mini-hiatus so that I can get my shit together. **

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p **


	10. I Don't Want to Change The World

**_Màrcio Lei = Macau_**

_Chapter 10_

_"I don't want to change the world. **I only want to stop**_** pretending."**

-Crucial, **K-OS**

**Seoul, South Korea- January 2011 **

"-And in other news, England's infamous Kirkland Company-,"

Yong Soo blinked, turning his head from the laptop and the new playlist he was creating to look at the TV on the other side of the room.

_Kirkland? _

The Korean teen narrowed his eyes slightly, pushing the rolling chair away from the desk to get a better look at the television. His headphones were yanked out of the laptop and he winced, recalling the last time he got chewed out about abusing technology. He swiftly pulled up the cord and tucked it surreptitiously into his pocket whilst using his legs to push the chair and himself across the hardwood floor and closer to the TV.

Yong Soo's brow furrowed as he approached the television, his chest pressed against the back of his chair and legs dangling off the side as he peered at the small screen, mostly ignoring the words being said and staring instead at the flickering images.

_Kirkland…Kirkland…..Why is that name so familiar? _

The youth continued to watch the TV with narrowed eyes, his interest dwindling as nothing came up that sparked his memory, or his interest. The Korean began softly humming the song that he had been listening to before the TV had distracted him. The melody floated through his head as he flipped through his memories and searched for anything he had seen or done with the name 'Kirkland', scanning through the seas of names that he had encountered in his long, long life.

After a few seconds Yong Soo frowned, puffing out his cheeks in irritation as he failed to recall anything.

_What if it's something important? What if it's something Aniki told me? I don't want him to be mad because I forgot! _

His frustration continued to increase, as did his worry. Though really, it was _very _unlikely that the name _had _been incredibly important as he had a _very _good memory and would not have forgotten something truly essential or something that his brother had told him not to forget.

A sad twinge went through the teen as he thought of his beloved elder brother, and he slumped over the seat with a sigh, memory dilemma momentarily forgotten. It had been a really, _really _long time since he had seen China. It had practically been _forever. _China had given him specific instructions to stay away and stay hidden unless he was called for, but Yong Soo just couldn't stop worrying that somewhere his _Nini _needed him and he wasn't there to help. These past fifteen or so years had been really frustrating. Especially knowing that _He _was still permitted contact with China.

Yong Soo's pout deepened and he sighed forlornly at the injustice of it all, his jaw tightening at the thought of _Japan _being at their brother's side while he couldn't be. The Korean stared sullenly at the TV, glaring at the story he was somehow connected to but couldn't remember.

_Vrrrr_

A sudden vibration from within his pocket caused Yong Soo to jump slightly. Pulling his gaze away from the TV and his thoughts away from his separation with his brother, Yong Soo stuck his hand into the pocket of his pants and began digging in it. He pulled out a slim, silver phone and flipped it open, scanning the lit up screen quickly.

_Will b late. Don't worry about dinner and don't eat the kimchi. It's mine. _

Upon completing the message, Yong Soo made a little noise of despair and swung himself around on the chair, leaning back and staring at the phone in his hand with a pout. The other boys had left early in the morning and he had spent the entire day alone in the apartment. As such, he had really been looking forward to them coming back and all of them hanging out together. But it now appeared that they wouldn't be back until late.

_But they're meeting with a label or a manager or something like that, so it's a good thing, right? A long meeting means lots to talk about, right? _Yong Soo brightened at the thought of possible success for his friends, before drooping and sighing inwardly. The television was still on and his previous irritation at his memory was still fresh in his mind, and that added to the sudden wave of loneliness had Yong Soo slouching down miserably. He could practically hear China's voice yelling at him about proper posture, but that just served to sadden him more and hunch him over further.

The teen sat miserably for a few minutes, ignoring the dull drone of the TV behind him. He fiddled around with his phone for a bit before a sudden epiphany came to him and he sat up straight. Yong Soo pulled the cord for his headphones out of his pocket and plugged it into the phone, a small grin lighting up his face.

_Go away unhappy thoughts! This _always _makes me feel better!_

Smile quickly growing wider, he began scrolling through the music list on his phone. In a few moments, he had clicked on a popular Korean pop song and had slipped his head phones over his ears, bopping his head to the beat and his eyes closed contently. His previous worries and annoyance melted away as he felt himself fall into the catchy beats and the melodious voices.

Yong Soo _loved _music. He just…_loved _it. When he had first come back to Korea after China had sent him away he had been miserable and sullen and missed his big brother terribly. He hadn't done much besides wander around aimlessly and stare at the single bag China had given him mournfully. His brother had provided him with an apartment to stay in and a credit card that could buy him whatever he needed or wanted…but the only thing he wanted was to be by China's side, and with that denied Yong Soo had been practically catatonic.

Then he'd heard it.

He'd been wandering around the streets one day, head down and lip protruding in a pout as usual, when he had heard the most _spectacular, amazing, beautiful _sounds ever. The teen had looked up to see a huge TV screen in a store window, a screen that was showing the most _awesome _and _smooth _dance moves ever.

And thus, Yong Soo fell in love with the wonder that was K-Pop.

He'd immediately purchased as many CDs as he could find, a radio, and a portable CD player so that the beautiful, catchy sounds would accompany him wherever he went. He got tickets to concerts and signings and whatever could bring him closer to that glorious, glorious music.

He _loved _it.

It was that love and growing addiction that had brought him to his current situation. Staying with an up and coming K-Pop band in their low-grade, low-cost, low-quality apartment whilst simultaneously serving as their roadie and helping them to move their equipment from concert to concert. Yong Soo wasn't exactly sure how the situation had worked out the way it had, but he was now surrounded by music all the time, courtesy of the band members who he had become quite friendly with over the past two years. He no longer spent every moment pining after China, _and _he had learned the dances to every popular K-Pop song that was out there.

All in all, despite the remaining ache for his aniki, Yong Soo was pretty happy. As long as his headphones and music were close by he could survive the time until his beloved big brother called for him.

Yong Soo reclined on the chair, a wide smile on his face as he continued listening to the music whilst spinning around. As the song ended his eyes fluttered open, and the chair slowed to a stop and stilled facing the TV.

Yong Soo blinked, sitting up suddenly and ignoring the next song that had started, the television screen directly in his line of sight. He quickly used his legs to propel the chair closer before sliding off and scrambling towards the set on his hands and knees. Music forgotten and headphones around his neck, Yong Soo sat up on his knees and stared wide-eyed at the television screen.

An interview was showing in English, the Korean subtitles flashing across the screen quickly to keep up with the rapid manner in which the interviewer was firing off questions. Yong Soo's gaze, however, was not on the interviewer, but on the man who was being interviewed. Reclining easily on the soft chair, one leg folded over the opposing knee and cheek resting on his fist as he smiled pleasantly and answered the questions. A familiar mop of unruly blonde hair and emerald eyes that had been burned into his memory.

_England. _

Yong Soo's hands tightened into fists and he gripped his pant legs tightly. His entire body stiffened as he sat upright, eyes glued to the screen as he actually paid attention to what was taking place on the television.

"-truly don't think it was a reckless move?" Yong Soo heard the announcer say. He wasn't paying any attention to the subtitles as his eyes were fixed on the blonde man, sitting casually as if he didn't have a care in the world. The English took a moment to process, as he hadn't spoken it in awhile, but he understood the question, and he understood the reply as well.

"A bold mood, for sure," said Arthur Kirkland silkily, "But reckless? I think not. In order to move forward, it's necessary to take a few chances now and again, wouldn't you say?"

_England. _

_England. _

_**England. **_

Korea's eyes narrowed to dark slits as he grit his teeth, the words fading into the background as his gaze remained centered on the Englishman sitting primly and smugly in his chair.

His beloved brother's hated enemy. The man who had hurt his aniki again and again and then had the gall to run away without taking his punishment. Anger coursed through the Korean youth as he stared at the television screen, a hundred thousand violent memories running through his brain. Conflict after conflict and battle after battle flashed through his mind. Dying again and again as he struggled to wipe that man from the face of the earth in the name of China…

And now England was on the television, lips upturned in an amused smile. Sitting neatly, not covered in blood, not suffering for all the money he had cost China and how angry he had made China…

He wanted to _kill _England. Kill him for his China-hyung. It was okay that England wouldn't stay dead, because Korea wanted to kill him again and again for all the mean things he had done to China. England was the absolute enemy of Korea's brother, and like he had promised all those years ago, the youth would do everything in his power to eliminate him from China's way.

Where was the interview taking place? Somewhere in the country England? He could get there. It would be easy. He had his credit card. He could go there and kill him, hurt him, break him, bring him back to China. Aniki would be _so _happy! He'd been chasing after England for years and Korea would deliver him up with a red bow tied around his neck!

Red with England's blood of co-

The sound of distant footsteps caused Korea to whirl around, his eyes still narrowed and dark and his entire body coiled as if ready to pounce. He stood up slowly, going over in his mind all the different ways he could kill whoever was about to enter the room. Rudely entering when he was _clearly _planning the best way to destroy England and make China proud of him!

The doorknob slowly turned before the door swung open inwardly.

Korea tensed, his body shifted forward…

"Yong Soo?"

A teenager had appeared in the doorway, looking to be about eighteen or nineteen, with neatly combed dark brown hair and rectangular glasses perched atop his nose. He leaned against the door, holding it open as he smiled friendlily at Yong Soo.

"_Annyeong_," he greeted calmly and with a slight bow, "Sorry to keep you waiting, but the meeting with that manager went for longer than expected." The teen looked at his friend apologetically, rubbing the back of his head ruefully.

Yong Soo blinked slowly once more, his body relaxing and the feral look fading from his eyes.

"That's…okay…" he said slowly, "Did things…did things go well?" The image of England's mutilated body was pushed to the back of his mind as the last vestiges of bloodlust faded away and Yong Soo tilted his head inquisitively, hopping away from the TV and towards the door.

"Very well actually," replied the other teen, his eyes twinkling, "We're all going out for dinner to celebrate. That's why the others are still in the car. In fact, I bet they're getting tired of waiting out there. Shall we go, Yong Soo?"

The drone of the television was still in the background, and Yong Soo tensed, conflicted over staying and coming up with a plan to eliminate England and going with the friends he hadn't seen all day.

_Well, Aniki hasn't called me yet…so…._

"Sounds great Lei-Hyung~!" chirped the Korean youth happily, getting to his feet and joining the other boy with a wide smile.

Lei smiled as Yong Soo skipped past him, closing the door to the apartment as they both exited. "I really am sorry that we were late," apologized the bespectacled teen once more, "But it was worth it, you'll see. Though honestly, what were you doing with yourself in that apartment all alone? You had such a serious expression on your face when I came in," asked Lei, looking at his friend curiously.

Yong Soo tilted his head to the side and grinned crookedly, "It's nothing Hyung, just thinking about seeing my brother again!" Becauseif England had resurfaced, than China would not be content to just sit still any longer. He would want to make a move and for that he would most certainly need Korea.

_And I'll be ready, Aniki!_

"That brother of yours that you never shut up about?" replied the other teen, adjusting his glasses, "The one we have yet to see a picture of and you haven't had any contact with in years?"

Yong Soo's face went blank for a second before his smile returned and he nodded vigorously. "That's the one!"

Lei sighed and shook his head slightly. "I don't understand how you can have such attachment to someone you never see." He lowered his glasses and gave his friend a somewhat disapproving look. "Someone who is never there for you."

"Aniki is my most important and treasured person," said Yong Soo fervently, "And I would do _anything_ for him." The Korean's eyes narrowed slightly, blonde hair and emerald eyes flashing in his vision.

"_Anything._"

**Toronto, Canada- January 2011**

"Watching something interesting?"

Matthew blinked, the words that had just come from behind him barely registering in his mind as he continued to stare wide-eyed at the television. He remained positioned in front of the set for a few more seconds, before comprehension suddenly sprung on him and he pushed himself from the TV, tearing his gaze away to peer over his shoulder at the person behind him.

Lars van Rijn stood there, leaning with one arm against the doorframe and dressed in a winter coat with a scarf draped loosely around his neck. The Dutch man was wearing a half amused, half concerned expression on his face, staring at Matthew with one eyebrow raised. Matthew blushed under the scrutinizing gaze, suddenly aware of how he silly he must look on his knees with his hands on the set and face practically pressed up against the screen.

"I…n-no, not really," stammered the Canadian answering Lars's question and ignoring the steadily growing grin on his friend's face. "I-it was just the news. Nothing t-terribly interesting."

"Really?" replied Lars, his tone teasing, "Because it looked like you were really into whatever it was, with your face pressed against the screen and all." Matthew blushed a deeper red while Lars just laughed, his grin widening as a roguish glint began to glimmer in his eyes.

"Hey," he said with a smirk, walking forward to push his face close to the blushing Canadian's, "Were you watching por-,"

"N-no way!" spluttered Matthew, moving back and jumping to his feet with his hands held up defensively. "J-just the news!" The man's lips twitched downwards, breaking his flustered moment as his gaze slid back towards the television.

_What was on the news just now…_

"Nothing wrong with it," laughed Lars, seemingly not noticing Matthew's sudden shift in mood and walking forward to ruffle the other man's hair good-naturedly, "You're a growing boy!"

Matthew stiffened under the touch and shrunk down, his troublesome thoughts interrupted. "Stop teasing," he huffed, shoving Lars's hand away irritably. Lars continued to laugh and Matthew continued to pout and half-heartedly defend himself against his roommate's callous remarks and large, flattening hand.

Inwardly, however, Matthew was still reeling from what he had seen on the television. Even as he dodged Lars's attempt at getting him in a headlock and aimed a rather weak and poorly aimed kick at the other man's shin, he was replaying the news report in his head. The business talk, the speculations, the gossip. The photos and the interviews and-

_What are you doing, Arthur?_ Thought Matthew, biting his lip and clutching at his sweater worriedly. _Russia? Already? Are you crazy? …Actually, I know the answer to that question…_

Matthew took a deep breath, allowing Lars to pounce on him as he tried to shake off and push back the bad feelings that were beginning to resurface and tug at his heart.

_It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what he does. I'm here, he's there, and I'm done. _

Matthew blew out the breath and opened his eyes, smiling up at Lars, who had his arms wrapped around the Canadian's midsection and was looking at him curiously, with one eyebrow raised. Matthew couldn't help but smile sheepishly before quickly struggling to wriggle out of the hold. Lars grunted as Matthew elbowed his chest roughly and let his arms drop, giving the shorter man a glare.

"You play dirty, you know that Matt?" he said with a scowl, massaging his chest with his fingers. A chill ran up Matthew's spine, but he shook it off and kept smiling, rubbing the back of his head in what would seem like an embarrassed manner.

_Sometimes playing dirty is the only way to stay alive. _

"Sorry, but you give new definition to the term 'bear hug'," he said with a shy little laugh. Matthew let his arm drop and stared at the floor, still trying to completely banish the haunting thoughts that were creeping in from the corners of his mind. The memories he kept hidden away that were now breaking out of their confines and wreaking havoc inside his brain. Matthew squeezed his eyes shut, the voice of the newscaster echoing in his head, providing an echoing soundtrack to the montage of bloody scenes from the past that had started playing like a fast-forwarded video reel in his head-

"Matt? Matthew? Are you alright, man?"

Immediately, Matthew's eyes flew open and in less than a moment he was completely composed and smiling sheepishly again. Shuffling nervously and hiding in his shirt like the good shy Canadian he was. Because that's all he was. A shy Canadian who also happened to be a hockey coach and who was taking an art course. A twenty-two year old student. That was all.

"Sorry, you were waiting for me, weren't you?" asked Matthew, smiling up at Lars in a slightly apologetic manner, "We can get going now. Bella is in the car, isn't she?"

Lars's concerned expression melted away into a confused one, and then into an incredulous one. However, he still nodded, albeit a bit begrudgingly, and turned towards the door.

"Yeah, I didn't really want to interrupt you while you were in that television trance, but if you're ready to go…"

"I am!" exclaimed Matthew, before blushing and shrinking down shyly, "Let me just fix my hair and stuff. We're going to a fancy restaurant, right?" Yes, that was right. Lars and his older sister Bella and Matthew were all going to a restaurant together. It wasn't for any special occasion, just a night out with friends, but it _was _a pretty high-end restaurant. In fact, Matthew was astounded that Lars and Bella were wiling to spend their meager student funds in order to go. But it had been awhile since the three of them had gone out together, so the blonde honestly hadn't been able to find it within himself to say no.

Matthew had known Lars and Bella for about four years now. They were both Dutch, though Bella had studied in Belgium for most of her school life and liked to identify herself as such. Both siblings had moved to Canada a few years back, for Lars to attend a local art University. Already having completed her university education, Bella had joined an organization that helped run programs for underprivileged children.

At that time, Matthew had been living with an old, _old _friend of his. He had been helping that friend out at the bookstore they owned, but hadn't really been doing much other than that. The only thing that brought him out of the house was going on long walks around the city, struggling with the sheer _depth _and longevity of his existence and trying his very best not to lose his mind. It was on one of those walks that Matthew had noticed a young boy struggling to make a shot into a net on a frozen-over pond. Being pretty decent at hockey himself, plus being unable to watch the horrible form the boy was using any longer, Matthew had slid over and offered to help the boy improve his shot. Unbeknownst to him, the child was under Bella's care, and later that week Matthew had been sought out by the woman and asked if he wanted to coach underprivileged children in hockey.

Matthew had been hesitant at first, but the temptation of having a _real _job, which he had never had before, was great. It had meant that he would no longer be mooching off his friend. And that he would have, well, _purpose _to his life. Even if he wouldn't be able to keep the job for long, it was still a nice idea.

However, somehow, he was still working that same job now. Coaching the same league and doing the same thing for…_years. _He'd made friends with Bella and her brother. He'd moved in with him. He'd made connections and made a life and…It was…well…incredible. It felt _great. _

_Even if it won't last for much longer. _

Lars rolled his eyes, walking out the door and waving one hand over his shoulder. "You're such a _girl, _Matt," he snickered, "Sure, whatever. We'll meet you in the car!"

Matthew huffed slightly at the comment and stuck out his tongue at the Dutchman who had just disappeared from view. As the door closed, Matthew's annoyed expression melted away and he sighed, running a hand through his hair. The blonde then turned and hurried to the washroom, straightening the wrinkles that had formed in his clothing as he did.

With Lars out of sight, the thoughts that he had fought back before began to resurface, and Matthew felt his stomach begin to churn violently.

_Damn…why is he starting this again? …Why is it starting _again_? _

Shaking his head and clutching at his sleeves as if they were his last lifelines, Matthew stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him as he did.

With a deep breath, he looked into the mirror.

Staring back at him was a young, rather mousy and unintimidating man with soft features and wavy blonde hair that fell just past his chin. Gentle blue-purple eyes were concealed behind thick glasses, pressed tightly against his face. His entire posture and figure seemed to be hiding. His shoulders hunched together, his legs pressed tightly and his head lowered. The man was wearing a dress shirt but he might as well have been wearing the baggy hoodies with the way he sunk himself down into it. Everything about him screamed awkward, scared and shy.

Matthew stared at the image, unblinking.

"_-The Kirkland Company attempting a comeback and making a move into Russia-,"_

The words from the newscast continued to echo around his head and once more Matthew screwed his eyes shut. The images that immediately flashed behind his eyelids caused him to open them back up quickly, staring into the mirror with his whole body shaking.

_Kirkland…._

The name bounced around his brain. And so did the image of _that man. _That one. Who he hadn't seen in over ten years. Almost fifteen.

_Kirkland…_

Matthew stared at his reflection, body no longer shaking and a strange, intense look in his usually docile eyes.

_Kirkland…Kirkland…what if he needs you again? What if he finds you? Even though the 'you' that he is looking for is not here? _

Yes, not here.

Matthew sucked in a breath shakily, hastily adjusting his tie and running a hand over his head to pat down the hair.

_Because you've hidden him away, right? You've locked away Matthew Kirkland. But if England is back, you should unlock him, shouldn't you? _

Matthew bit his lip, hands shaking as they slowly fell away from his tie and head.

_But…I don't want to…_

The Canadian stared at his reflection, still gnawing at his lip, for a few more long seconds. Slowly, with hands shaking slightly, Matthew reached up and began pulling the glasses off his face.

_**HONK! **_

The loud honking of a car caused Matthew to squeak and jump in surprise, his hands falling away from the lenses as he struggled to finish straightening his tie. The blonde grabbed up a brush and dragged it roughly through his hair, before frantically patting down the creases in his shirt.

Another honk had Matthew scrambling to get out of the bathroom, running to the door only to turn on his heel and race for his coat.

"Oh, maple…" he muttered as he searched for his dress shoes, inwardly lamenting at how utterly disorganized and easily flustered he'd become. Honestly, he had no idea how he got so clumsy and absent minded. When he was with the kids he was the cool, smart, hockey coach. But as soon as he was away from his job he became a bumbling dork.

_So different from that time…_

Matthew flinched, sucking in a breath and squeezing his eyes shut.

_Stop it. _

_**Stop it. **_

Releasing the breath slowly, the Canadian sat down and began slowly and carefully putting on his dress shoes, pulling on the soft leather with painstaking precision.

_No. No. I'm not going to think about it. I'm _not. _Matthew Kirkland is not locked away. He's dead. He's _dead. _And I am Matthew Williams, and that's it. _

Matthew smiled softly, standing and doing up the buttons on his coat as he walked towards the door with renewed confidence and a cleared, unfettered mind.

_**HONK. **_

The sudden loud noise caused Matthew to jump and yelp just as he was exiting the apartment, and the young man tripped over his own feet and tumbled onto the snowy walkway with a thud.

With his face pressed into ice and pavement, Matthew could only sigh and smile wryly as he heard Lars's laughter and Bella's concerned shouts from the curb.

_Just a day in the life of Matthew Williams. _

**Shanghai, China- February 2011**

Since hearing the news a mere week ago, Wang Yao had not been able to stop thinking about England. Or, more specifically, how to eradicate England and his pitiful family and company from the Earth in the most painful way possible.

Yao was having trouble deciding which exact method he should use. Should he draw the game out for as long as possible, or get rid of Arthur and his family in one quick swoop? The Englishman had caused him no end of trouble over the past eight or so decades, but he had also been really _fun. _And Yao was bored. Bored, bored, _bored. _If he got rid of England right away, then he would just be bored again. Bored forever really. And it wasn't like Arthur Kirkland was a _threat. _Oh no. The man had lost all his power and was exceptionally weak with his feeble little company. He wasn't like he had been in the old days. No, not at all.

Things had changed quite a bit from the old days actually. It was an entirely new world they were living in. Yao often found himself flustered and put out by how quickly and dramatically the world had changed. Not only was it unsettling for a boy born in the 1920s, but the substantial advance in technology and intelligence would make engaging in any of the battles that used to go on between him and England extremely difficult, as it would be impossible for their activities to remain unobserved as they once had been.

In addition, despite his boredom, things were going quite well for him right now. As seemingly powerless as Arthur was at the moment, Yao couldn't deny the fact that England could potentially cause some serious damage to him if given the chance. But then again, victory just wouldn't be sweet enough if it wasn't drawn out and painful. He wanted to see England writhing in pain. To make him regret ever starting this conflict.

Also, he wanted to no longer be bored.

Yao pushed the pile of reports to the side, pulling out a blank piece of paper and pulling a black pen out of his pocket.

_What to do, what to do? _

Kiku had said that making lists helped people become more organized. Helped to gather their thoughts all in one way. So maybe he could make a list of possible ways to destroy the Kirkland Company and the numerous ways to make the man's family suffer for eternity? Lists did make things more organized, and organization was important.

Yao's pen had just touched the paper when he heard a knock at the door. The Chinese man blinked and his brow furrowed. He wasn't expecting anyone today. Well, at least he didn't think he was. Most of his boring business meetings were handled by his secretaries. But they hadn't said anything about a meeting…

"Come in," he commanded sternly, masking his confusion with a cold and indifferent expression. The door opened and a petite woman was revealed to be standing in the doorway. She smiled bowed deeply before stepping into the room.

Yao fought back a scowl. He would never see the use in women, honestly. He disliked them and found them utterly useless creatures. They didn't seem to do much good in the world besides the manufacturing of children and even that had become more a curse than a blessing in the past decades. But this was the 21st century, and thoughts like that were no longer acceptable.

That was one thing he truly disliked about being immortal. Occasionally, the world changed in ways you really wished it didn't.

"Good morning, Mr. Wang," greeted the woman politely, "I apologize for intruding, but there is an important call for you on Line 6."

An important call? That he hadn't anticipated or been warned about by his numerous plants and sources in every other major business corporation around the world? That _was _unusual.

"Oh?" replied Yao, his mask remaining stiff except for the slow raising of one eyebrow, "And just who is it?"

"A man who claims to be an associate of one Arthur Kirkland," said the woman primly.

Immediately, Yao stiffened and his eyes narrowed. His mask fell for a split second, an expression of surprise, fury, and excitement flashing across his face before he composed himself quickly. The Chinese man let a small smile spread across his face and sat back in his chair, clasping his hands together neatly.

"Is that so, _aru?_" he whispered, half to himself, his eyes staring off into space as his mind drifted to far away places and years long past. And awkward silence descended before Yao suddenly blinked and straightened up.

"Please connect the line," he said tersely, glaring at the woman slightly. Honestly, _why _had he hired women in the first place? Was it _that _important to keep the façade of being a modern and equality-conscious company when he had to be surrounded by creatures that irritated him more than Korea on coffee and Kiku on his honour trips combined?

The woman didn't flinch, but bowed deeply before retreating out of the room. Yao relaxed as soon as she was gone, and an amused smile quirked his lips upwards. He leaned on the desk, his elbow crushing the oh-so-important-stacks of paper and his cheek resting against his fist. Yao stared at the neat black phone, body tense and the tip of his tongue snaking out to lick his lips in anticipation.

Despite the man's brash move into Russia, Yao really hadn't expected Arthur to be so bold as to contact him directly. Clearly, getting his glorious empire yanked out from under him hadn't been enough to teach the man to be careful.

Yao jerked upwards as he saw the light beside _Line 6 _begin to flash red, and he reached his hand across to pick up the phone. Just as he was about to lift the object off the receiver he hesitated, his hand hovering over the black box as if suspended by an invisible string. Yao stared at it, feeling a surreal sensation, as if he was standing on the edge of a great precipice. Here it was, the single event that was sure to throw him back into another conflict, another sixty-something year-long war. Perhaps longer. The event that was going to let loose a string of bloody and brutal accidents across China, England, Russia and beyond. The death of hundreds, thousands. Property destroyed and people ruined.

That same old game.

With a smirk, Yao pulled the phone off of the cradle and pulled it to his ear, leaning back in his chair and twirling the cord around one of his fingers.

"Hello, _aru. _Yao Wang speaking," he purred in English, "With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

There was silence for a few moments, before a deep chuckle came through the line. Yao's smile faded for a fraction of a second and he stiffened. The voice wasn't one he recognized. None of England's family members. No one he knew. Had the English man obtained more followers? A large amount of supporters? That could explain his sudden cocky behaviour, but feeling reassured by human numbers was foolish. It was far too easy for normal people to die. England should know, just as China knew, that non-immortal beings had no true place in their combat.

But then, who was on the other line?

"Yao Wang, is it?" said the voice, speaking for this first time. "You cannot imagine how pleased I am to be speaking with you."

Yao's frown deepened and he sat up straighter. The man's English was heavily accented. His voice sounded…Russian.

"And who is it that I'm speaking to?" replied Yao, his voice still pleasant but his eyes narrowed and his posture rigid. "I was told that it was an associate of Arthur Kirkland."

Another chuckle came from the phone and Yao found himself getting irritated and impatient. This man appeared to be toying with him, and Yao did not have the patience or the time to indulge in some upstart's little games.

The Chinese man had just opened his mouth to demand an explanation when the man on the other end began to speak once more.

"Not quite I am afraid," replied the man smoothly, a hint of amusement in his voice, "I am as much as an associate of his as I am an associate of yours."

The smug tone with which the man was speaking was beginning to drive Yao crazy and he leaned forward over his desk, nails digging into the wood as he fought to keep his voice and self calm.

"And how exactly were you able to contact me?" demanded Yao, speaking slowly and deliberately to keep the annoyance and anger out of his tone, "Access to this line isn't widely available."

This time it wasn't a chuckle, but an actual laugh. High pitched and giggly, it wasn't a laugh that Yao would have associated with the deep voice, and it served to irritate him even more.

"Never mind that," answered the Russian playfully, laughter still colouring his voice, "Are you not at all curious as to why I called?"

Yao's lips pressed into a thin line and his hand clenched and unclenched slowly. "I only wish to end this useless conversation," said the man stiffly, "I have no time for prank calls."

"I assure you, Yao Wang, that this is not a prank call," replied the Russian man immediately, "Or would you take this more seriously if I called you China?"

Yao froze and a chill ran up his spine. His mouth opened uselessly for a moment before he licked his lips and let out a dry chuckle.

"I would take it somewhat negatively, I'm afraid. I am Chinese, but there is no need to call me 'China'," he answered smoothly, keeping his voice level and calm despite the way his heart had suddenly started hammering in his chest.

"Don't be silly!" replied the voice cheerfully, "You know exactly what I'm talking about! You thought that this was a call from 'England', da?"

And that was the last straw.

Yao's hands clenched into a fist and his mouth twisted into a snarl as he almost pulled the cord out of the handset as he stood up violently, toppling his chair over as he did.

"Who are you?" he growled lowly, golden eyes flashing with rage, "And what do you want?"

The large office went disturbingly quiet, the only sound being Yao's slightly laboured breathing as both parties went silent.

"You may call me Russia," said the voice cheerfully, ending the lack of noise, "And I have a proposition for you."

**/**

**Next chapter already up. (Or it should be, if FF isn't being a bum) **


	11. You Walk in the Road, But

_Chapter 11 _

_"You walk in the road, but you're going nowhere. **You're trying to find your way home, but there's no one there."**_

-What Do You Got, **Bon Jovi**

**London, England- July 1928 **

"Why is the sky blue?"

Arthur lowered his book slightly, frowning at the sudden interruption. He turned his head and looked down to where Alfred was spread out on the grass beside him. The younger boy was on his stomach, propped up on one elbow with his cheek resting in his hand, his gaze upturned towards the sky.

Arthur stared at his brother for a moment, not sure if he had actually heard the question correctly, before tentatively responding, "Pardon?"

"The sky," repeated Alfred, his eyes still trained upwards, "Why is it blue? Why not some other colour? Why not purple? And why is it not always blue? Why does it turn red and orange and pink and all those shades in between?" Biting his bottom lip, Alfred dropped his gaze and turned his wide blue eyes towards Arthur, "Do y'know, Artie?"

Arthur blinked, caught slightly off guard by the question. It was random, even by Alfred's standards, and he was unsure exactly how to respond. Not wanting his surprise and uncertainty to be shown, Arthur buried his face into his book, coughing a bit as he did.

"O-of course I know why!" he spluttered, voice partially muffled by the heavy tome in front of it, "However the exact reasoning is quite complicated and beyond the scope of your current knowledge. Therefore, it is better if we just-,"

"Aw Artie," interrupted Alfred with a grin, "If y'don't know just say so," Arthur's cheeks burned bright red and Alfred laughed, giving the older boy's leg a friendly shove with his free hand. Arthur spluttered indignantly again and sunk down further behind his novel. The blushing tips of his ears poked out comically and Alfred laughed at the sight, sitting up and tugging on one of them playfully.

"Oh stop it!" grumbled Arthur, his face still flushed with embarrassment behind the safety of his book, "Why are you asking such ridiculous questions anyways? Are you bored or something? I told you to bring something to do. I am determined to finish this novel and have no desire to idle my time away entertaining you."

Despite Arthur's obvious annoyance, Alfred's smile didn't fade, and he flopped against his brother, leaning against Arthur's chest and resting his head on his shoulder.

"Nah, I'm not bored," replied Alfred casually, ignoring the way Arthur's body had tensed and snuggling closer to him. "I've been thinking a lot, that's all."

"Thinking?" muttered Arthur bad-temperedly as he rested his book down on his lap, "You? Now I've seen everything."

All the same, the teenager wrapped his arm around his younger brother, shifting slightly against the tree trunk to allow Alfred to rest comfortably against him. Arthur's cheeks burned slightly with new embarrassment and he found himself looking around to make sure that none of the groundsmen were about. He was fifteen now, and well on his way to being a man. It wouldn't do to be seen…cuddling, as if Alfred and himself were little girls. Which they most certainly weren't!

"Don't be mean," pouted Alfred, evidently not as concerned at being seen snuggling as Arthur was, "I think about stuff all the time! Just not the boring stuff you think about."

Arthur made an offended sound at the comment and Alfred snickered, only to yelp as Arthur hit him over the head with his book. The twelve-year-old tilted his head upwards and stuck his tongue out at his brother, pulling down his eyelid for added affect. Arthur returned the childish gesture, and accented it by flicking his brother's forehead. Though he outwardly wore a scowl as he grappled with Alfred, Arthur found himself fighting back a smile.

Alfred was annoying and idiotic at best, but Arthur truly loved moments like these. The two of them, sitting beneath a tree on the grounds, with the leaves providing a gentle shade and the summer heat warming their bodies. The hectic life of London seemed far away when they were here, just the two of them. In fact, if Arthur closed his eyes he could imagine that it was just the two of them in the entire world. That he no longer had to live up to his Father's expectations, that he didn't have to worry about upholding the family name or what the future would bring. That he could dismiss those nagging worries that he always had for Alfred, and for Matthew as well. Would they ever be able to fully acclimate to London society? Exactly what roles would they be forced to play in the future?

And…

…would they still all be together?

Their senseless squabbling faded away and the two boys found themselves once again relaxing silently beneath the tree. Arthur's eyes had closed and he had begun to doze, the warm summer heat soothing and lulling.

"I think the sky is blue because it's supposed to be," said Alfred suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen between them and causing Arthur to open his eyes.

"I mean," continued Alfred, sitting up slightly so that he was leaning less on Arthur and more on the tree, "It just wouldn't feel right if the sky wasn't blue during the daytime. I know it changes colours throughout the day an' when it rains an' stuff, but usually…it just has to be blue." Alfred spoke with conviction and an unusual seriousness about him, and Arthur couldn't help but smile down at him fondly.

"I suppose that's true," agreed Arthur with a nod, "The sky would look quite odd if it was magenta."

Alfred snorted at the mental image and let his head flop against Arthur's, giggling happily. Arthur winced as his brother's head knocked against his and then sighed, finally setting his book aside completely and allowing himself to fully cuddle against the younger boy. He had decided that it was useless. The day was far too perfect and it felt far too nice to just doze against a tree with Alfred. The book could wait until later.

A few serene minutes passed and Arthur found himself beginning to doze off. The soft rustling of the leaves in the breeze along with his brother's quiet breathing beside him were quickly sending him off into a peaceful slumber, and his eyes closed as he rested his head atop of Alfred's.

"It's like us," said Alfred suddenly, breaking the silence and causing Arthur to jerk awake and startle slightly, eyes blinking lethargically as he tried to remember where he was and what he was doing.

"P-pardon?" stammered the Brit, yawning sleepily as he begrudgingly pulled himself back from the precipice of sleep.

"The sky," continued Alfred, his eyes once again looking to the heavens, "It's like us. The sky is blue because it's supposed to be, and because of that it will always be blue. The sun might make it turn orange and red for a little bit and the clouds might cover it up, but it will always go back to being blue."

Arthur blinked again, before rubbing a hand across his eyes and sitting up straighter, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep.

"I'm not sure I understand what you're getting at," he muttered, eyes furrowed together in confusion. He turned his head towards his brother questioningly and Alfred shifted so that he was facing Arthur completely, big blue eyes staring into bright green ones.

"We're supposed to be together," said Alfred simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "So we'll always be like this. We might get torn apart for a bit, like when you coop yourself up inside with your stuffy old books and your lessons or when you get all grouchy and stop talking to me for a whole _year-," _

Arthur flushed and turned his face away, folding his arms across his chest with a burning blush on his cheeks. "I told you Alfred I-I was going through a difficult sort of time and I am _sorry _about-,"

"But," continued Alfred, cutting off Arthur's apology with a wink and a grin, "But, we'll always come back together. Because we're supposed to be together like this, so we always will be. Together."

Silence fell between the two boys, Arthur momentarily stunned by Alfred's unexpectedly profound and touching words. The blush on his cheeks darkened, and he unintentionally found himself thinking back to the time before Alfred. The time when it had just been him, alone in a giant mansion with only the servants and his lessons for company. The time when he had been driven solely by the need to prove his worth to his Father, and nothing else.

But then a garrulous American had burst into his life and dragged him kicking and screaming out of his lonely existence. Drove him mad and annoyed the living daylights out of him, but kept him company and stuck by his side no matter what. Alfred _was _always there, no matter what life- or what Arthur himself -threw to try and keep him away.

"I suppose that's an accurate comparison then," replied Arthur softly, smiling at Alfred. "Just how did you come by it?"

Alfred grinned proudly and puffed out his chest. "I just thought of it now! Just lyin' here, lookin' at the sky! I should be a phi-, phila-, philo-, philia-,"

"Philosopher," supplied Arthur with a snicker, smirking despite the irritated look that Alfred shot at him. "I knew that," snapped Alfred with a scowl, glaring at the older boy who still held a smug look on his face.

"Of course you did," replied Arthur teasingly, tugging on Alfred's cowlick playfully before recoiling as Alfred leapt at him with a shout. The two boys collapsed onto the grass heavily, and immediately began grappling with each other. Arthur's normally composed attitude was forgotten as he allowed himself to tumble about on the grass, laughing as he and Alfred pulled each other's clothes playfully. The brothers wrestled for a bit before Arthur managed to pin Alfred down, only to have Alfred tickle his side and send them both collapsing into a laughing, giggling heap.

Arthur held his heaving sides, rolling about under the shade of the tree with Alfred's legs entwined in his and the boy's laughter ringing in his ears along with his own.

_We're supposed to be together like this, _thought Arthur, reveling in the feeling of true _happiness _that he only seemed to get when he and Alfred were alone together, lost in that special world that belonged to just the two of them.

_So we always will be. _

**January 1929**

"Whaddya mean I still can't see him?" snapped Alfred, hands clenched into fists at his side and head pushed forward belligerently. His blue eyes were furious and burning brightly with hurt, the boy standing up on his tiptoes to get his face as close to the servant's as possible. The butler standing in front of the office door maintained his stoic expression and merely moved back a step to escape the twelve-year-old's flying spittle.

"I am sorry Young Master Alfred," responded the man calmly, keeping his stern gaze emotionless and unmoving, "But Master Kirkland is extremely busy at the moment and has requested for all guests to be turned away-,"

"That's not true!" burst out Alfred, scrambling a few steps forward, "I see people going in there all the ti-,"

"Master Alfred," interrupted the butler, holding out a hand to stop Alfred from advancing any further, "That is quite enough. Master Kirkland is not available to hold an audience with you. When he wishes to see you, he will call for you. Until then, please stay clear of this area and focus on your lessons."

Alfred's eyes burned with anger and tears and he opened his mouth as if to say something else, but was silenced as a hand took him firmly by the arm and began leading him away.

"Come along, Master Alfred," said the maid, Cynthia, her voice soothing but as firm as she pulled Alfred away from the door and placed a hand on his back to usher him forward, "There is nothing more for you to say. Leave Mr. Jenkins alone. It is as he said: when Master Kirkland wishes to see you, he will call for you."

Alfred clenched his teeth, fighting back the enraged tears that threatened to spill over and wrenched himself from Cynthia's hold, his stiff, angry march turning into a run as he sprinted down the hall, wiping away the tears that were now flowing freely down his cheeks and ignoring the shouts of the servants behind him.

"His name isn't Master Kirkland," he screamed, his voice echoing around the house, "It's Arthur!"

"ARTHUR!"

/

_**BANG. **_

The block of wood tumbled off the platform in a spray of splinters, hitting the ground with a thud. The other blocks sitting on the line followed soon after, some cracking straight down the middle before collapsing and falling down.

Matthew lifted his head up, blinking his eyes and waving away the smoke that was wisping in the air. He inched backwards from the hilltop he'd been firing from, pulling himself upwards off of his stomach and into a kneeling position, the gun pointing upwards beside him. The covering of snow on the ground had wet his pants and shirt straight through, and he shivered in the cool wind, pulling his jacket tighter about himself. Matthew didn't usually go out to shoot in the winter, in fact, he rarely left the house at all. But in recent months he had had plenty of reason to want to escape the suddenly empty, desolate mansion.

Mr. Kirkland had died.

Matthew stiffened and shuddered slightly. Even simply reflecting back on it, the statement seemed unreal and impossible. That the man who had saved Matthew's life, brought him and his brother into safety from the harsh streets of Manhattan… That he was…

Matthew squeezed his eyes shut, tears snaking out from under his eyelids to roll down his cheeks, his repressed sobs causing his breath to ghost thickly in the wintery air.

He couldn't think about it. Couldn't let himself think about. He had spent the entire funeral and the following days of mourning with his face buried in Alfred's shoulder, a position he had given up years before. Everything had felt numb and strange and like he was drifting through some backwards nightmare because _Father can't actually be dead right? _

But he was.

Dead.

A car accident in Hong Kong. The exact details were hazy but apparently the driver had lost control of the car. The resulting crash had sparked a large fire and…

There wasn't even enough left to send home to bury.

Matthew suddenly lurched forward, feeling bile rise up in his throat. He clapped a hand over his mouth and swallowed thickly, fighting back the sudden urge to vomit.

It was horrible. Everything had fallen apart with one telegram. His life had been going so _well_. He had finally felt good about _himself. _Not himself as an extension of his brother. He hadn't had a panic attack since he was ten, he was becoming an _amazing _shot, he was slowly but surely getting used to not having his brother always at his side. Becoming comfortable with being by himself, by _being _himself.

And then everything went up in flames.

And aside from the devastation that his adoptive Father's death brought him personally, there was also what it had done to those he cared about. Alfred had been sullen and more disobedient than usual, especially with all the lawyers and businessmen and all manner of people swarming the estate. They all had the guise of giving their condolences but the greedy glint in their eyes spoke volumes of their true intentions.

Visitors aside, the entire household had been subdued and melancholy, more than one servant breaking into sobs whilst trying to go about their daily chores.

And then there was Arthur.

After the officious looking men in black suits had come immediately after Mr. Kirkland's death had been confirmed, Arthur had been whisked away, suddenly having all of his Father's responsibilities thrust upon him, being the oldest son. With one telegram, he went from being a fifteen-year-old boy still learning his place in life to being the head of a major company and the head of the family.

One telegram and Matthew's world had been turned completely upside down.

One telegram and all of his happiness had gone up in smoke.

He'd lost his Father, and with Arthur pulled away into the world of adulthood, and Alfred spending every moment of every day trying to reach him, he might as well have lost both his brothers as well.

Matthew sniffled and got to his feet, shivering at the feeling of his wet clothes sticking to his skin. He shouldered his rifle and pulled his jacket tighter around himself, taking a deep breath and choking back the new tears that were threatening to form. Snow and slush squelching into his shoes and his body wet with melted snow, Matthew stood shivering, staring out into the forest and clutching the gun to his body.

It was cold, really cold, but he didn't want to move from the spot. He didn't want to turn and begin walking back to the mansion. Because that was all it was. A mansion. It was no longer home. Now, it was just an empty building, filled with stifling silence and sadness. Everything was wrong. Everything had changed. And Matthew felt lost. He didn't know what to do, where to go. He just felt...lost.

Matthew remained standing, unwilling to take the first step that would take him back towards that empty mansion. His stillness was broken only by a shiver and a sneeze, followed by him rubbing his reddened nose with the back of his sleeve. He blinked his eyes blurrily and heaved out a sigh as he saw a few white flakes beginning to drift past his nose, completely at a loss as to what to do with himself.

"Hey, what're you standing out here for? You'll catch your death in this cold, coz."

Matthew squeaked and whirled around to face the figure that had suddenly appeared behind him, automatically lowering the gun into a firing position, his eyes wide and startled.

"Whoa! Hold up there!" Two gloved hands flew up to place themselves in front of Matthew's gun. The figure took a shuffle backwards and chuckled nervously. "I know it's been awhile, but don't you recognize your cousin?"

Matthew blinked, his breath still coming out in short panting breaths as he struggled to calm the hammering of his heart. As his panic settled and faded, his eyes widened and he lowered the gun, mouth dropping open slightly.

"J-Joey?" he stammered in disbelief, staring at the tall youth who had appeared in front of him.

Joey grinned down at Matthew, pulling one of his hands out of his jacket pockets to ruffle the younger boy's hair.

"Hiya there, Matt," his language was still colloquial and carefree, like Matthew remembered, but his tone was soft and sad, "Long time, no see huh? You've gotten big. And I see you're still shooting! Gotten any better, or are you still getting murdered by the backlash?"

Matthew could only stare at his cousin, taking him in with an utterly stunned expression. Joey Sanders looked the same as ever. Brown tousled hair was a bit more windswept then usual, a piece at the front sticking up, but still the same. Dark brown eyes still twinkled from beneath large eyebrows and were set in a deeply tanned face. That same bandage was still on his nose, on that spot that seemed perpetually sunburnt. The only notable difference between the Joey now and the Joey of three years ago was his height (he now towered over Matthew completely) and the deep, rumbling tone to his voice.

Matthew continued to stare, his mouth still slightly open. Joey. It was _Joey._ His cousin. His friend. The one that had help him break out of his helpless shell. The one who had taught him how to shoot. His cousin. Someone who cared about him. Someone who was _family. _

And suddenly, it all burst. All the suppressed emotions that he had been keeping locked away. All the pain and hurt he was feeling. How _alone _he was.

Matthew felt tears spring up in his eyes and he sobbed, dropping the gun and launching himself at the Australian. He thudded into Joey's chest, wrapping his arms around the teenager's body and burying his face into his jacket.

Matthew heard and felt Joey sigh, but he didn't relinquish his hold, hot tears dripping down his cheeks and his entire body shaking.

"C'mon Matt, calm down..." said Joey, his voice rough and awkward. "Look, I know it's been hard, but-,"

"But what?" shouted Matthew, drawing back and staring at Joey with reddened eyes, "How could you know? How could you? Everything has been wrong. So, so wrong. Everything is- Every_one_ is-,"

"I _know,"_ stressed Joey, looking tired and irritated, "I know everything has been screwy since Uncle's death, but-,"

"How could you know?" shrieked Matthew again, thrusting himself forward and reattaching himself to the older boy's jacket, "You haven't been here! No one's been here! It's just been me, only me, everyone else is-,"

"God Matthew, _shut up_," groaned Joey, extracting himself from the younger boy's hold and stepping backwards, folding his arms across his chest, "How could I know? How could _you _know? You don't know anything, at all! The things that have been going on…you just don't know! So please, don't go running your mouth off or throwing yourself a pity party. Honestly just..._shut up_."

Matthew's eyes widened and his mouth hung open dumbly, hurt and stunned at being so brutally shut down. The blonde's throat choked with tears once more and he wrapped his arms around himself and sobbed again, hiccups and keening noises bubbling through the lips.

How could he shut up? How could he? His entire world had crashed all around him, and he'd found one shred of familiarity, one thing to perhaps find comfort in, and now...

"Shut up?" he screeched, the sudden return of his anger startling the Australian, "Shut up? How- how can I? In that empty mansion where there is no sound but crying and shouting- _there_ I shut up. Every day I shut up! I don't talk at all, because- because Alfred is always angry, always yelling and shouting, obsessed about getting to Arthur, seeing Arthur, talking to Arthur- and Arthur, I haven't seen Arthur since Father's funeral! Not once! Never! He's only ever in the study, talking to gentleman, to- to servants, to everyone but us. Never us. He might as well be dead as well! And I can't say anything! I can't do anything! Because apparently, Arthur is busy, Arthur is working- always working! Working for us they say! Working for Father's company, working for- for-," Matthew floundered for words, breathing heavily and with his hands clenched into fists at his side.

"But I just want to see him," he said, quieting, "I just- just want to see him. I want to see him smile; I want to- to hear his laugh. I want to hear _Alfred's_ laugh. I want to see us all, together again. _Happy_. I...I want...," Matthew's body slumped down weakly, tears trickling out of his eyes and tremors still shaking his body.

"I want to do something," he continued, his voice returning to its usual meek whisper, "I wish I could do something. I want to _fix_ this. Fix us. I wish..."

"If wishes were fishes there'd be no room for water in the well," commented Joey dryly, finding his voice again after the stunned silence he had stood in during his cousin's outburst. "Everyone wishes, Matthew. Everyone wants. But few people can make those wishes and wants come true. Happiness isn't impossible but it's not something that can just be handed to you. Not anymore."

Matthew's breath hitched again and he turned his face away from the older boy, biting his bottom lip and stifling sobs. The Australian watched for a few seconds, before giving his head an exasperated kind of shake and bending down to pick up Matthew's gun.

"Shouldn't leave it in the snow like that, for the water to get in and mess everything up," he said gruffly, half to himself, "Well, I'm heading back now. You should do the same. I'm not too sure why you were standing out here in the cold anyways."

Matthew's head snapped back towards his cousin, but Joey had already straightened up and begun walking to the mansion, Matthew's gun clenched firmly in one hand and the other in a tight fist at his side. Something twisted in the blonde's stomach, and he got the immediate feeling that he had done something very wrong.

It was Joey who had first gotten him to break out of his shell. Gotten to him to break away from his brother, to do things for himself, to learn to not depend on others. That had been three years ago, and this was their first meeting since.

And here he was, crying and shaking and whining in the cold, over lost brothers.

The wave of shame that crashed over Matthew almost caused him to double over, and another sob rattled his chest. Cursing himself internally, he turned, facing his back to Joey's receding figure and screaming at his weakness, his uselessness.

_I can be strong, _he thought desperately as he clutched at his jacket, tears still blurring his vision. _I can!_

_I can be strong. _

_I can be strong!_

…_Why can't I ever be strong? _

/

It was like he was submerged in a deep tub of water.

"And furthermore I believe that investments in this area..."

"No no, the market demands that..."

The words were echoic, far away. Muted and with only the slightest buzz to them as they entered his ears. Though his eyes were fully open and for all purposes seemed bright and attentive, the image of the business men in front of him seemed wavy and distorted, as if looking at them through a glass of water.

Arthur blinked a few times, occasionally dropping his gaze to look at the numerous papers, figures and numbers, documents and letters, spread out on the desk in front of him. The studying he had been doing had done nothing to prepare him for the sheer volume of work, papers, and complications that plagued the business world. He had had only the few days of confusion after his Father's death to learn as much about the business world and his Father's company as he possibly could. His Father had no vice-president, no subordinate, no one besides James and his brother-in-law to take over. But Mr. Sanders was in Australia, to far to even attend the funeral, and James was...

Business couldn't wait. Someone had to take the reigns of the company before competitors and enemies took advantage.

And there was only Arthur.

Fifteen years old, still a child. Never having before experienced true responsibility, true work. Suddenly having an _entire company _thrust upon him.

It was madness.

_"Isn't there anybody else?" pleaded Arthur, his eyes red rimmed and bagged, suit rumpled and hanging unflatteringly about his body. He had just come from his Father's funeral. Just come from watching the empty casket be lowered into the ground. The funeral had come only a few days after the news, as there was no need to wait for the body to come back from China. There was no body, just ashes and scraps of clothing._

_There was nothing. _

_Nothing. _

_"There is no one else," said the first man gruffly, peering out from under the wide rim of his top hat. The man had a name, an important one at that, but Arthur couldn't care to remember it, nor could he care to remember the name of the second man. If he was being honest, he didn't care for much of anything at the moment. _

_"Surely he had a senior advisor or something along those lines!" continued Arthur, his voice becoming more and more desperate, "There must be someone better suited than I! This is madness! I can't run a company!" _

_"I don't think you quite understand the situation, Mr. Kirkland," said the second man sternly._

_"Don't call me that!" exploded Arthur, his voice cracking into a sob and tears pricking at his eyes. "Don't...don't call me..." _

_Arthur's entire body shook with grief and his face fell into his hands, his chest and shoulders heaving as he fought to keep in the tears. "Oh God…,"_

_"This situation is not as simple as you might think," continued the other man. Arthur could hear their shuffling, feel their irritated stares, but he remained hunched over with his face in his hands, ignoring them._

_Simple? Simple? What was simple about his Father dying? About his world crashing down around him? What on earth could be simple about his entire life falling to pieces? And why wouldn't they leave him alone? Why did they keep pestering him so?_

_"Leave me alone," he muttered, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, "Just…just let me be!"_

_"You don't understand," pressed the first man. _

_"I don't want to understand!" screamed Arthur, lifting his face up and balling his hands into fists, " I don't want-,"_

_"You don't have a choice," interrupted the grizzled, beady-eyed man, voice cool and composed as always, "Arthur Kirkland. You never had a choice. It just so happens that certain events made you aware of this fact a bit sooner than expected."_

_Arthur's eyes flashed and he opened his mouth for a sharp retort, only to have his body sag and tears begin to trickle from the corners of his eyes. "I wish you would shut up," he muttered miserably, turning his face away and pressing a hand to his forehead._

_"That's not an option," said the man with the top hat, his shoes clicking against the floor as he stepped forward, "We have wasted enough time as it is." _

"_I don't care about your time," _

"_You _should! _Though you are grieving, you are the only one-," _

"_How is that possible?" screamed Arthur, whirling around and flying forward at the two men, "How can it be that I am the absolute only one who can take over the company? It does not make sense! It's ridiculous! I can't do it! I shan't do it! I'm only fifteen and I _know _that there are men in this company who-," _

"_That is the issue, Arthur Kirkland," said the bearded man, interrupting again, "It is not a matter of your Father's company. You are right, _that _could be put in the care of almost anyone." _

_Arthur blinked, eyes narrowing in confusion. "What do you mean by that?" he snapped, exhausted and sad and angry and thoroughly tired of all the flurry, secrecy, and complications._

"_What he means," said the other man, "Is that while your Father's company could be governed by anyone, your Father's _empire _can only be taken over by his kin, by his _son_." _

"_Empire?" repeated Arthur, his nose and forehead wrinkling in confusion, "By what do you-," _

_The blonde froze, images of letters, transactions, and lists of drugs suddenly flashing through his mind. Old suspicions that he had months ago buried began to resurface and he found himself placing one hand over his mouth at the weight of the man's words in conjunction with his prior knowledge._

"_Oh," he said quietly, voice muffled by his hand, "Oh." _

_His eyes slowly met those of the two men, and his understanding must have been obvious, because both of them smiled. _

"_Welcome to the family business, Arthur Kirkland," said the bearded man, his smile gap-toothed and disconcerting, "Leader of the most prosperous illegal trade in all of Western Europe." _

"Mr. Kirkland?"

Arthur blinked, lifting his head from the papers and documents and letters on his desk to once again turn his attention to the businessmen gathered around his office. They were all staring at him, some with contempt, (as they were apt to when confronted with a situation where they had to pay respect to a boy,) and others with outright irritation. None of the men looked particularly happy and Arthur truly couldn't blame them. The business he was in didn't fill him with any sort of happiness either.

"My apologies," he said, clearing his throat and pushing his thoughts back to the present and away from the painful memories, "Do repeat your last statement, would you?"

Irritation rolled around the room and the old men exchanged glances and annoyed grumbles. None of them were happy with Arthur, with having to deal with a child. Attempting to get any of them to deal with him civilly and on an equal level was like pulling teeth, except ten times more painful.

Arthur's eyes narrowed and he banged his fist on the desk to get their attention. At the loud sound all of them startled in their chairs and turned towards him, moustaches bristling and watery eyes wide.

"I insist that you forgive my momentary lack of concentration," said Arthur lowly, in something akin to a growl, "And repeat the last statement that was said. We are all busy gentlemen, and I shall not waste any more time on you then necessary. Do not try me, lest it end badly for you and your own endeavors."

A chilly silence descended upon the office, and all of the businessmen shuffled nervously, some of them looking cross, others looking frightened.

Arthur resisted the urge to heave a sigh, struggling to maintain his fierce expression and angry, no-nonsense attitude.

Fear, he had discovered quickly, was the governing force in the business world. Moreso than even money was. Corporations and companies all ran on fear. Fear of being out-bought, out-done. Fear of losing everything, fear of not gaining enough. Fear of not beating down the competition before the competition beat you. Fear. Fear and power. Power shifts and power struggles and fear of power and fear of losing power. It was constant. A vicious, disgusting jungle. Arthur wasn't sure if he respected his Father more or less for having been a part of this world and yet still maintaining his kind, calm façade.

_Of course, _thought Arthur bitterly, _it was all a lie in the end. Everything. _

_And now, here I am, wearing the same mask. _

"Of course, Mr. Kirkland," said one of the men, lips in a tight, angry smile, "I shall oblige you."

Despite himself, Arthur returned to half-listening as soon as the man began talking. His thoughts were far off, far gone from the tiny office.

These men, thank goodness, were 'normal' associates. That meaning they were representatives from other companies that wished to deal with the Kirkland Toy Company. Nothing more, nothing less. Arthur was merely required to discuss some things, read some things, argue about some things, and nothing else. This aspect of his new responsibilities at least, required only for him to have a good handle on the going ons of the business world and where to invest and where not to. Which toys to promote, which toys to scrap, which toys to begin manufacturing at a faster rate due to demand. Which new designs to use, which designs were out of style; things like that. And of course, where to find investors, sponsors, that sort of things. Perhaps 'simple' was not the right word to describe it, but it was the simplest thing in Arthur's life right now and these tedious, infuriating meetings were the closest thing he had to rest.

Because then there were the other associates.

The ones not for the company, but for the empire.

It still gave Arthur chills and made his stomach turn when he thought of the truth of his father's wealth, of his father's business. The true man behind the kind and noble mask that he had worn. A toy company, a toy maker; that was all. So thought Arthur, and all of England as well.

But that was a lie.

It was all a lie.

Because there were drugs, as well as dolls. There were illegal weapons instead of toy swords. There were ties with underground organizations throughout Europe. Other crime factions that his father had done business with. From whom his father had received money. Whom his father had apparently ruled over.

A corrupt, illegal empire of trade.

And now, it was all Arthur's.

And he didn't want it.

Arthur tried not to wince at the sudden wave of pain that crashed over him. He had heard the din earlier that day, heard Alfred desperately trying to get in, to reach him. He wanted so badly, so badly he could hardly stand it, to go to him. He wanted to see Alfred, to sit out in the sun with Alfred, to talk about the sky and colours and all those other nonsensical things with Alfred.

Badly. So _badly_.

But he couldn't. No, he most certainly couldn't. Because Alfred, and Matthew as well, had no idea about the shady side to their Father. They idolized him. Loved him. After all, he was the one who had rescued them from their pitiful lives on the streets of Manhattan. The one who had given them a home. Saved them.

In addition, he didn't want either boy anywhere near this business. This filthy, illegal, bloodstained business. Arthur himself did not want to be a part of this business, but he hadn't been given much of a choice. It was either take over, or lose everything. And worse, risk incurring the anger of his Father's trade partners. If he suddenly let his Father's empire crumble to dust, all of its members would be out for his head.

He was trapped. Like a rat.

And he would be damned if he made Alfred and Matthew feel as trapped as he did now.

So he kept them away. Refused to see them. Immersed himself in the disgusting, blackened world he was now a part of.

In his deepest heart he held onto the hope that, someday, things would be better. Some day, the three of them would be able to laugh together again. Someday, the pain would stop.

But until then, he had to sit here. Had to wear the business mask, play on the fears of others, be feared. Immerse himself in the darkness and bear the pain alone.

Completely alone.

/

"Would you like something to drink, Master Joseph?"

Joey winced at the formal version of his name and waved the maid away brusquely.

"No thank you," he said curtly, settling himself more comfortably on the couch, "I'll just wait here until Mr. Kirkland is ready to see me."

The maid nodded politely and then curtsied, hurrying out of the room with Joey's damp coat slung over her arms. Joey watched her leave, waiting until the door closed before slumping down with a sigh, allowing his head to thud back against the wall.

_Mr. Kirkland. _Ugh. How he hated having to refer to Arthur like that. He was sure that Arthur hated it even more, and Alfred and Matthew doubly so. This entire business must have done a number on the entire household, and especially the three youngest members.

Joey ran his fingers through his dark brown locks, shaking his head and keeping his eyes trained upwards. It was all a bad business, really. Arthur's father was dead, and now Arthur was 'Mr. Kirkland', the head of most illegal trade in all of England, Great Britain, and with a fair number of branches throughout Western Europe. Arthur, who had never before known of the shady, dark dealings his father dealt with and was the boss of, was suddenly the boss of it himself.

It was all quite…horrible, honestly. Joey, at least, had known about the darker aspects to the Kirkland family since he was ten years old. His father, though not a blood relation to the Kirklands, dealt in some of their matters himself, as well as in his own shady business in Australia. Mr. Sanders, the blunt, no-nonsense man that he was, saw no point in hiding the grittier aspects of his life from his son. In fact, he had often chastised Mr. Kirkland for doing so with his sons. Their method of conducting business called for important matters to remain strictly within the family. Which was why Mr. Sanders thought it so important for his son to be educated on the matters, and thought Mr. Kirkland was crazy for keeping Arthur in the dark. Though apposed to the idea of adopting sons into the family that were not actually Kirkland blood, Mr. Sanders had appreciated the idea of having more people, and thus, more power. Struggles and competition were as frequent in the underground business world as they were in the above one. Having two more able-bodied sons could prove very useful, if they were trained properly.

But that was the current problem, wasn't it?

Mr. Kirkland was dead, Arthur had had the mantle of the family thrust upon him, and Matthew and Alfred had been left drifting. Completely in the dark about what was truly going on, and utterly useless to the family cause, having received no training and having no knowledge. As such, no matter how much the two of them wanted to see Arthur, their presence would only hinder him. They could provide no assistance in their current state and it would most likely only upset Arthur if they were to become involved.

Joey drummed his fingers against his knees and sighed again. It truly was the worst kind of situation. Arthur was, quite frankly, alone. Joey had come up from Australia under the guise of paying respects for his uncle, but truly, he had come to offer his assistance to his cousin. Unfortunately, Joey had his own commitments back home and his own underground empire to inherit. He couldn't stay here forever. He couldn't offer his support forever. And when he finally left, Arthur would be left in a big empty mansion, with two useless brothers and a mountain of responsibility and danger on his shoulders.

_But what am I supposed to do? _Thought Joey, dragging a hand down his face tiredly. _It's not like I can stay here. It's not like I can magically make all of Arthur's problems go away. I can't-_

The Australian's train of thought cut off sharply as the door began to swing open. Joey sat up, eyes narrowed and he placed on hand on the couch arm, preparing to stand up.

The door opened fully, revealing a wet, bedraggled, and rather desperate looking twelve year old.

Joey relaxed as he recognized Matthew and turned his face away, resting his cheek on his fist. He heard the blonde shuffle into the room, closing the door softly behind him. Joey kept his face turned, honestly not wanting to turn to the young boy. Quite frankly, Joey was irritated with Matthew. Three years ago, he had set the boy on a course that he had hoped would lead Matthew to a path that would later enable him to serve the Kirkland family. Get him to be a bit stronger, a bit more forceful. Teach him how to shoot, give him a skill that would be useful in the family business. And now, when the Kirkland family and Arthur needed it most, Matthew had reverted back to his sniveling, pitiful, crying self. It was both irritating and angering. In all honesty, Joey didn't want to look at his cousin. Seeing his crying face just…made him too mad.

"…Joey?"

The Australian winced at the weak, scared-sounding voice from the doorway. He kept his face turned and gritted his teeth slightly. He liked Matthew, honest he did, but the boy was just so-

"JOEY!"

Joey actually jumped a little, turning around as Matthew's normally quiet voice reverberated around the room. He opened his mouth to snap out an answer only to find Matthew right up in his face, one hand on his shoulder, fisting in his shirt, and the other braced against the couch.

"I'm weak," said Matthew, speaking hurriedly as if he was in a rush to get all the words out, "I'm weak, and useless and a crybaby. Just like I was three years ago. I know that. I know, you know, everyone knows."

Joey snapped his mouth shut and bit his tongue. He had noticed that Matthew had a tendency to go on little rants, probably a product of staying so quiet most of the time. Interrupting him was pretty much impossible at this stage, so it was best to just let the young boy say his fill.

"I thought I was trying," continued Matthew, biting on his bottom lip, "I really thought I was trying. Getting better. Getting stronger. L-learning to shoot, trying to be independent from Alfred…"

Matthew sucked in a breath, violet eyes tear and lip trembling. "B-but I'm not! I know I'm not! I'm just as useless as I have ever been! Y-you were right, I _don't _know what's going on. I don't know anything at all. But…"

Matthew lifted his head, matching his eyes with Joey's and tightening his hold on his cousin's shoulder.

"But I want to know," he whispered fervently, "I want to understand. I…I don't want to be useless anymore!" Matthew squeezed his eyes shut briefly, before they shot open and stared into Joey's with a startling amount of intensity.

"I want to know what you know," he continued, "I want to understand the world that you…a-and Arthur are in. I want to understand so that I can be strong, and so that I can help. Please! I know I'm useless now, but if you could tell me. If you could help me understand…"

"It's not that simple," said Joey, choosing that moment to interject. "At all. Matthew, it's not a matter of just understanding the situation. It's…it's being prepared for the situation. When I say you have no idea about what's going on, I truly mean it. And honesty, it's better for you if you stay that way."

Matthew recoiled a bit, eyes wide and a bit hurt, before he leaned forward again, mouth pouted belligerently.

"How is it better for me?" he cried, retightening his hold on Joey's shoulder, "Knowing nothing? Not being able to do anything? I hate being weak and useless! I hate not being able to help! Please, help me understand! I don't want to be useless and in the dark anymore!"

Joey's eyes narrowed and he forcibly removed Matthew's hand from his shoulder, shoving his cousin back none to gently.

"Are you sure?" he growled harshly, "Are you really sure that you want to know, Matthew? Because to understand, understand everything…It will mean your entire world will come crashing down around you. Everything that you know to be true will be proven to be a lie."

"As if my world hasn't already crumbled!" exclaimed Matthew after a brief moment of pause, his hands clenched into fists at his side. "If by knowing what you know, I can somehow reach Arthur…somehow bring what's left of my family back together again…th-then I don't care what it does to me! I d-don't care what becomes a lie! Joey, please!"

Joey grit his teeth and turned his head away again, pressing his palm against his forehead. He wanted to tell Matthew. He really did. Wasn't this what he had been asking for just minutes before? If Matthew knew the situation, then he could help Arthur. He would be here, and Arthur wouldn't be alone.

But then again…_what was he thinking? _Matthew was twelve and weak. He was prone to crying and was extremely submissive and shy. What good could he possibly do Arthur? He would be more a liability then a help, especially should a fight break out.

"Quite frankly," began Joey, turning his face back towards the blonde, "I don't think you can handle it. Not just the knowledge, but also the responsibility that comes with it. Once you know what I know, there's no turning back. It will become an entirely new world and…I'm not confident you can handle it. I don't think you're strong enough. I would only be telling you what I know if it would benefit Arthur, and right now, you're to weak to be of any help."

"Then help us get stronger!"

Both Matthew and Joey whipped their head towards the door as it suddenly banged open and Alfred came tumbling into the room, face flushed. The twelve-year-old tottered slightly on his feet before standing upright and marching across the room with his hands clenched at his side.

"You keep talking 'bout how Mattie's so weak," growled the young blonde, stopping in front of Joey and his brother, "And since you ain't told me any of that…that _knowledge _you were talking about, I'm guessing you think the same of me. But if our weakness is the problem, why don't you help us get stronger? Why don't you make it so we're strong 'nuff to help Arthur? I don't want ta be useless either! I want ta help! But no one's letting us! No one…no one's helping us! We…we need help to help Arthur! I want to get strong! Mattie wants to get strong! To help Arthur we need to get strong!"

Alfred jerked forwards and took Joey's shirt in both his hands, pulling the Australian upwards until they were almost nose-to-nose.

"So help us!" he screamed, blue eyes wide and furious, "HELP us!"

With that, the room fell silent, the only sound being Alfred's slightly heavy breathing and the rustling of Matthew nervously shuffling from foot to foot. With a grunt, Joey detached Alfred from his shirt and stood up, shooting both brothers appraising, skeptical looks.

Noticing the look, Matthew stepped forward, pleading with his cousin with violet eyes wide.

Joey pursed his lips and transferred his gaze to Alfred, who was staring at him with all the ferocity of a raging lion, looking ready to attack at any moment. There was a blonde, wide-eyed child on either side of him, and they had him backed up against the couch, both with pleading, demanding looks in their eyes.

Joey heaved a sighed and cursed under his breath, running his hand through his hair again.

"Dammit," he swore, averting his gaze and shaking his head, "This is crazy…"

"Will you help us help Arthur?" demanded Alfred, taking a step closer.

"Give me some space would you?" snapped Joey, shoving the younger boy back. "And it's not as simple as you think! To help Arthur, you're going to need to learn a lot. About business, about trade, about the world, everything. Not only that, but you're going to need to learn how to…how to hold your own. Conduct yourselves. Fight. Matthew already learns how to shoot a gun, but you'll have to learn too Alfred. And besides that, you'll need to learn hand-to-hand fighting, among other things. And…"

Joey paused, noticing how Matthew's eyes grew wider and wider while Alfred's grew more and more narrow.

"You boys just have no idea," finished Joey heavily, folding his arms across his chest, "No idea at all."

"But you'll give us an idea," interjected Alfred, face demanding and serious as ever, "Won't you? Because I ain't taking no for an answer. I'm going ta help Arthur, and that's that. You can help me, or you can't, but I'm going ta help him. We're _both _going to help him. Isn't that right Mattie?"

Matthew hesitated for a moment before nodding vigorously, transferring his gaze from his brother back to his cousin. He was biting his bottom lip, but his eyes looked less scared and more determined, his hands also in fists at his side.

Joey looked back and forth between both brothers for a few moments before he shook his head and chuckled dryly.

"I must be losing my mind," he muttered under his breath, "I can't believe I'm going to do this."

"So you'll help us?" asked Alfred excitedly.

"I'm doing this for Arthur really," corrected Joey, "But yeah, I'll help you."

Alfred let out a loud whoop while Matthew just released a relieved smile, all the tension rushing out of him as he kind of sagged where he stood.

_Is this the right decision? _Wondered Joey to himself. _They're just boys. Little kids. But…_

_But they're fiercely loyal to Arthur. They love him. They'll do anything for him. They'll work hard for that, if nothing else._

**/**

**First off, thank you for all those reviews! Gosh they were lovely. Sorry I didn't reply. I've been ridiculously busy and stewing in a ragepot of anger directed mostly at life and myself. **

**But enough about that. **

**Welp. **

**Not sure what to say except that I am a colossal arsebucket. **

**Honestly guys, if I ever start bitching about things just take me by the shoulders and scream "QUIT YOUR BITCHING, WOMAN". I need to be slapped sometimes, really. **

**The story is fine. There's no huge ridiculous flaw in my writing. It's not getting a shittonne of reviews because it's not getting a shittonne of reviews. Readers are fickle and some stories attract less than others. I am over it. My brief stint of melodrama is over. And I feel like a giant ass over the entire thing. Bluh bluh I am the huge whiny bitch it is me. **

**Unfortunately, it took some moping about for me to realize this and then I went to Europe for two weeks. But I got back yesterday and started editing these things as soon as I could. **

**Double chapter post because chapter 10 is kind of a slow chapter to come back from a hiatus with and I feel like a colossal douchenozzle. **

**Anyhoo, my exams are coming up and I have a crapload of essays due so after I catch up to pre-written chapters updates will be non-existent until June, probably. Also, Homestuck. It's unfortunate, but I have been completely and utterly sucked into that fandom. I am working on a fanfic for it, and have another one banging about my thinkpan, begging to be released. Those will most definitely take up my time as well. **

**But I assure you there will be no more of these petty hiatuses born out of self-pity. Author's honour. **

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p **

**/**

Chapter 12: There is no more straddling the line of alliance. There is no more biding your time. The clock has stopped ticking. The game is concluding. And it still remains to be seen who will be trapped in the checkmate.


	12. Chapter 12Important notice

**Hey! Nat here, telling you that this story has been revamped, re-edited, and rewritten in some sections, and will now be getting reposted! **

**I'm super against deleting stories, so this will still be up, but I strongly, strongly advise not rereading this version, or reading ahead in this version while waiting for me to update the new one. **

**So yeah. **

**I'll be posting the new version of Noise tonight, so check my profile. And if you are a new reader, again, please don't read this version of the story because you're anxious to see what happens. I've changed up a lot of stuff. **

**For old readers (and so the staff doesn't take down this notice as 'not being a chapter') here's an example of 'changed' stuff...**

**Hyderabad, India – March 2011 **

"Faster child, you won't remove any heads with that technique!"

He watched her face twist into a snarl as she lunged forward, and sidestepped the attack quickly. The tip of her sword almost sliced open his cheek, and he had to fight to stop himself from whistling appreciatively.

It's not that he didn't get good sword fighters, it's that very rarely did he get girls who could almost match him blow to blow after only three sessions. This girl was countering every hit with minimal strain. She was fast, and kept attempting short stabs towards him. There was a fury in her fighting, and Rajni could appreciate and understand it, even if it did create glaring weaknesses in her form.

"You are trying to hard, my love," he noted as he sidestepped another one of her blows, "The art of swordfighting is not, in fact, all in the sword. I've said this before, haven't I?"

He had. He has always strongly emphasized the importance of form and footwork in all of his classes, to all of his students. If there was anything he had learned in his many, _many _years it was that the difference in the way you could move your feet could be the deciding factor in any type of battle. Swordfight. Knifefight. Gunfight. Bombfight. And especially hand-to-hand.

The girl evidently hadn't internalized this yet, however, and lunged at him again, snarling as she stabbed forward with her blade. Her expression was a mask of desperation and fury, made more intense by the burn scars marring her face. This was the look of someone desperate to lash out; desperate to hurt someone the way they themselves had been hurt.

Again, it was understandable. And Rajni did pity her, and what she, and all the other girls had gone through. Unfortunately, such an absolute lack of form and control could only result in defeat, and he clucked his tongue in disapproval, sidestepping easily.

"Your form is atrocious!" he admonished, parrying her next blow with a shake of his head and continuing to gently rebuff her in between ducks and blocks, "Your feet are, no love, the other way- no I said- _oh for heaven's-," _

Rajni whacked the girl's rapier out of her hand with an easy flick of his wrist, stepping into her side and knocking her off balance completely. Her eyes widened as she tumbled onto the mat-covered floor, her expression darkening into one of shame and suppressed rage as she pushed herself up into a sitting position.

There was a chorus of sound from the other girls watching from against the wall, some words of encouragement, some quietly mocking, some noises of admiration at how swiftly Rajni had taken her down. The man shot them all a sharp glare, raising his blade so that the tip of it was pointed in their direction until their words faded away into silence.

"None of you have done any better, so save your comments," he said sternly, making a tsking sound with his tongue before turning his attention back to the girl he'd defeated, who now knelt in front of him with her head bowed.

"And you," he began, lowering his arm, his tone still stern, "You need to utilize that anger and hate in a more constructive manner. You'll get nowhere stabbing blindly with nothing fueling you but your fury. _Technique_ is needed as well. And control. You choose to ignore both. That is why you fail."

The girl flinched, and he saw her hands clench into the cloth of her pants. Her shoulders shook slightly, and he wondered whether she was holding in sobs or holding in the desire to leap to her feet and stab him.

Rajni sighed, turning away from her to once again face the line of girls against the wall. There were about nine of them, all new recruits. Girls whose injuries, traumas, and the like had healed enough for them to begin training. Girls from across India, rescued from abusive family, spouses, and employers by Rajni's organization, and offered the chance to strike back at the society that had allowed them to go through so much pain and injustice. Not all of them took the offer. And many were too damaged to even be considered. But a decent number took the hand he extended to them, and in the last ten years or so, he'd developed a decent network of saboteurs, spies, and assassins. Vengeful girls were fast learners, and had an incomparable tendency for ruthlessness.

But many of them started here. To angry to think straight. To hurt to use common sense. And Rajni understood that. There was a moment in his life where he too had been overwhelmed by the injustices wrought upon him, where he'd wanting nothing more than to scream and rage at his family for failing him so badly. To attack the man who he had been sold to, and to act through nothing but anger.

But common sense had won out, and he had achieved much more by training, becoming smarter, and using his position to his advantage. He never would have been where he was now, in a position powerful enough to allow him to directly effect change in his country, if he had not remained with the Kirklands for all of those long years.

Rajni smiled grimly, and summoned the next girl forward with a flick of his rapier.

He was free from them now, and he would use all he had learned in that time to ensure that the oppressed had the opportunity to fight back.

**So look out for Noise version 2.0! If you're irritated by FFnet like I am, you'll be happy to know that I'm also posting this on AO3, so look up my username on that site if you'd rather read there. **


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